Hundreds of Miles Away from the Khajiit and Mjoll...
The hart was a healthy, horny one in the prime of his rut. One of the younger hunters spent all of winter learning to mimic the calls of a buck in rut screaming for a mate. We'd all shared hearty laughs about him behind his back and in our cups, but after a week in the woods without hide or hair spotted we'd all come to agree it best to give him a chance to prove himself. The damned braying and screaming he'd done didn't sound like a deer to me. The hart that came running clearly disagreed with me. The boy was hiding in a brush on the edge of the field while the rest of us waited deeper in the woods. Damned fool got ran over by the beast as the thing trampled the bush in search of his promised challenger.
It took nearly twenty arrows to get the hart to bolt away from the boy, and another ten to bring him down. Our brave boy managed to get away with a busted arm and more bruises and bumps than anyone cared to count. The hart, however, got away with dying nosily in the middle of the field until the archers had reloaded and fired even more into him. The eldest of my hired hunters examined the kill in the field and judged him to be nine or ten years of age. A Monarch stag with sixteen points evenly distributed along his horns, and six or seven years in his prime. Judging from some does hiding in the opposite edge of the forest, our kill had more than a small herd following him.
"Looks like a few lucky bucks are going to become stags tonight, boys.". They'd all laughed and shoved one another at that, but I'm sure it's because of the fact I'm paying them more than anything. Either way, it's no skin off my nose if they bray like donkeys at everything I say in the hopes of a few extra gold tossed their way. We'd thrown up a small, makeshift camp of shoddy tents in a misshapen circle at the edge of the clearing to rest for the night. My men were skinning the deer and preserving his head as the sun set when I hear the sound of hooves beating a frantic tune.
It takes only a glance at our own supply of horses to know whoever's coming isn't with us. I've risen and prepared to draw my dagger when the horse burst from the underbrush, tramples the injured boy from earlier, and successfully kicks dirt over a smoldering fire one of my men was desperately trying to get to take flame. The colt is black as night with only a diamond over his left eye to break up the darkness of his pelt. That's more than enough to tip me off to who's riding him.
"Ashni!". My beloved is still struggling to calm Blackberry when I finally make it over. I shush the colt and manage to grab his bridle. The colt tries stomping my foot and it's only by the grace of the Nine his strike doesn't land. That doesn't stop him from trying his best, though. Slowly, Blackberry calms down and Ashni slides off.
"Thank you.". I grunt to show her I've heard as I lead Blackberry over to the other horses. He's breathing heavy, covered in a thick foam of sweat, and shaking. I hand the colt off to the master of horses I brought along before returning to my wife. I swear my love is in a dreadful state: Ashni's bright, purple doeskin jerkin is ripped asunder with the fox fur lining soaked in sweat; her scarlet tights are likewise ripped to the point I can see her snowy pelt beneath; both her shoes are missing while her right foot is missing her littlest claw; and the leather belt she wears around her waist is now covered in scratches with the tiny purse that's suppose to be attached to it likewise missing completely. It's only as I'm looking at her waist I see her usually pristine, perfectly milky colored pelt is becoming pink.
I curse her as I motion for the medic, who's currently attending to the trampled boy, to come assist me. It ends up only being a small gash on her waist, but I still don't let the man leave until he's seen to it and wrapped a bandage tight around her torso. Finally, I fetch my wife some beer and bread. I don't say anything as she consumes her fill; instead, I wrap her tight in my arms. Then, after she's done, I do my best to get answers out of her. After all, we've both come to agree my monthly hunting trips once a year are best for both of us. Ashni isn't forbidden per say, she's just never shown any interest in hunting.
"Have you decided to hunt with me this year? I'll admit, you made quite the entrance.". I'm shoved away hard enough my chest aches. I'm preparing to hiss at her when stops me dead.
"She's alive.". My ears, halfway down in preparation of hissing, snap back up. There's no need for Ashni to say more. We've only two daughters in our life, and one is safely back at home right now lazing her day away reading or fishing or doing whatever catches her fancy at the moment. The other we assumed to have died or been lost months ago. She sent us letters from every stop she made, but they stopped after she sent one from Riften in Skyrim.
Afterwards, we'd sent letters to Riverwood and Falkreath and Whiterun all begging if a young, tiger colored Khajiit woman had sent a letter that never arrived. All of our inquiries and searching had been for naught. Finally, we'd received a letter from the Imperial army scouting regimen stationed in the Rift. They warned of a burned, abandoned wagon with a serial number registered under our company name. Neither human nor animal corpses had been found with the wreckage, so we'd held out hope some bandits or slavers had abducted our daughter. As the months passed, we began to lose hope.
That's where Ashni and I differed. Ashni was convinced that our daughter was dead and buried and rotting wherever she laid. I, on the other hand, believed our daughter simply got distracted along her journey or decided to run off and have some fun. After all, a burned carriage means nothing in times of war. An abandoned one is just as like to get set aflame as one filled with occupants. Now, it's clear I was right. I don't have a chance to ask where, how, or any other questions before Ashni continues.
"I got a raven from Whiterun. Some retainer she hired has seen her safe, but she says she's been gravely wounded along the way. They're waiting in Whiterun for Sotha Sil's Slavers to arrive. We'll have her back within a fortnight at most.". There's been a tightness in my chest and back I haven't been able to shed since news of my eldest's disappearance reached me. We never got along at the best of times, so it wouldn't surprise me if she ran away out of pure spite just to make me sweat for a few months or years. Still, I was never able to get rid of the tiny nagging voice in the back of my head that constantly warned me my wife was right and that somewhere in Skyrim my daughter was rotting in a peasant's grave. Now, without any hesitation in her voice, she's chased away all doubt in my mind she's alive.
I find my wife and I clinging to one another, sobbing. I don't remember how long we sit and cry together. The only thing I remember next is laying in my sleeping clothes in my sleeping sack with my wife curled up underneath my arm. Darkness consumes my tent as my love snuffs the candle between her fingers and holds me tight. It's only after a few minutes in total darkness that I remember something my wife said.
"What of her injury?". A long, undisturbed silence fills the air with only the whinnying of horses and the crackle of a fire to tell me the world hasn't frozen.
"She never said.". I feel my heart spasm in a panic. As a child, my daughter was thrown from her horse and dashed her head against a rock while she was riding. She'd had to sneak out after her curfew in order to ride her mare, so she hadn't brought the injury to her mother nor me for fear of retribution. It wasn't until she was slurring her words and falling asleep standing we were able to drag from her what happened. A skilled healer had cut through her skull, allowed the brain to swell beyond the confines of her head, and sewn everything back together with a steel plate in place after the swelling went down. Still, even now, she has issues when it comes to riding on ships due to the rocking and old injury combining together to destroy her balance.
I would like to say having a healer cutting through her skull taught my daughter not to hide her wounds until it's too late. I'd like to say that, but I'm not a liar. She's always hidden her hurts and aches and ills until she can't anymore. Even a week before she left, she didn't tell either of us her ear was hurting until she came bursting into our room in the middle of the night sobbing because her ear was leaking blood and puss and the pain was too much. She'd had to have the wound drained and the entire ear stuffed with gauze it was so severe. For a wound to be so terrible she not only tells us, but writes to us when we can't even see her?
Whatever it is, I'm bracing myself for permanent mangling and debilitating wounds. I don't say anything. My wife doesn't either. I lay in the tent with my eyes closed and focus on controlling my breathing. I feel my wife trying to do the same beside me. It doesn't matter. I lie awake in the tent, thrash and turn, and never get any closer to sleep. Ashni does the same. We rise with the sun. My men have abandoned me in the night as word has traveled from one to the other I've no intent on continuing the hunt any longer. In their place, they've left only what is mine: my tent; Blackberry and my pure white horse, Cream; and the weapons I brought with me.
A plate of roasted stag, flagon of beer, and the stag's head are all that remain that I didn't bring with me. I take my fill before getting the tent down. When my wife begins to help, we have it down and strapped to Cream within minutes. I went to sleep in white, doeskin braies and a loosely fitting nightshirt of fine purple silk that hangs to the end of my stomach. I don't bother changing into my regular clothes or armor. I don't even bother taking the stag's head with me or his antlers. Ashni and I both know we need to return home and start preparations for getting our daughter home and the celebration to follow when she arrives.