I am here!
Felnore's deep baritone echoed across craggy peaks of mountains so old, their deep-seated memories were lost to time. The moaning wind rose to form a harmonious duet as the howl was carried off far and wide.
Again, and again, the call went out, seeking an answer.
Eventually, a voice did howl back, high toned and clear.
I hear you!
Large furred ears swiveled forward as the big grey wolf listened intently to the answering howl. It come from no wolf that he had encountered before.
Who are you? Why are you here? Answer!
This was a she-wolf, a seasoned matriarch of these parts, who demanded answers from his calling. These were her lands. Her word was law.
Felnore shook off a blanket of fresh snow as he sat up and lifted his nose to the sky.
Traveler. Not threat. Seek passage. Warning! Hunters! Danger! Threat to all wolves. Beware. Pack in danger. Warning!
The wind ferried the response swiftly across the frozen planes of the desolate mountain range. A friend to all wolf kind, the wind brought with it the scent of promise and pack, as Felnore waited to see if he would be granted safe passage through foreign territory.
He carefully licked the torn pads of his paws where ice shards and frozen shale had stripped away the protective tufts of fur from between the toepads and left all four paws raw and bloodied. Hours of hard running through chest-deep snow and over frozen rock had put a heavy strain on his body. Despite the nagging fear that nipped at his heels, he had no choice but to finally stop to rest when the exertion became too much.
It was a good thing he did. Running pell-mell into another pack's territory was just as dangerous as running head-first into a wall of silver spikes. Only the other wolves would not show any mercy if they caught him.
Minutes passed and his tongue worried a sliver of flint from his forepaw. If his request was denied, the race back to Whiterun would take even longer. Already, the night sky was deepening overhead. A smattering of early stars had begun to shine through. Time was running out.
He would have to outpace the moon as it crossed the horizon if he was to make it back in time. If the sun beat him to it, all could be lost.
Finally, the wind brought back favourable news.
Run on stranger! Do not stop! To stop means death! Warning!
The matriarch had granted him passage. He was free to journey through her territory without the fear of being hunted down and punished for trespassing. Finally, something had gone right for a change.
Understood! I go!
Giving his paw a final lick, Felnore stretched out his spine and took up the tattered cloth trousers in his teeth before he began his descent. The heady smell of pine sap and fir needles trained his nose toward the right path as solid sheets of ancient ice merged with fresh snow. Although speed was of the essence, it would be a dead wolf's gambit to run across an unknown landscape without any caution to guide his steps. One mis-step could mean broken bones and a slow agonizing death.
Wind guide you. Run, traveler, run home!
A shiver of pleasure joined the sweeping tail wag of gratitude as a cacophony of howls rose into the night. The matriarch's pack had gathered to her and lifted their voices to sing out the ancient song of greeting that all wolves knew in their marrow.
Sing the Moon a song of solace
Sing the Moon a song of space
Sing the Moon a song of oneness
Sing together in this place
To any wolf within hearing range, this was an open invitation. To sing, unfettered by fear or hunger, was a glorious thing and when one wolf sang the song, the rest joined in. Across the hold, a multitude of noses pointed at the moon as more voices sounded out from the deep forests that lay beyond the mountain's reach.
Despite the danger that dogged his steps, Felnore appreciated the show of solidarity. It was dangerous for a pack to howl together in these times. It gave away their position to any potential threat that might be listening.
And threats were everywhere across Skyrim.
However, desperate times calls for desperate measures. The threat to one pack was the threat to them all. All wolves knew this and so they sang.
The serenade continued well into the darkest hours of the night as Felnore kept a steady pace as he loped into the thick black forests that covered the Falkreath Hold. This was the land of towering pines, plentiful prey, and dark secrets. The packs who claimed this part of the world as their own did not often tolerate outsiders crossing their borders.
Once swallowed up by the trees, Felnore slowed to a steady trot. The wolf wanted to run on, despite the exhaustion that pinched his joints with every step. The pack was in danger yet Felnore would not allow for wild instinct to override reason.
He had not ventured into these parts for the better part of a year. Much could have changed during that time. He had to be cautious. The local werewolf pack may have granted him the privilege to be there, but the pockets of humanity that had settled in these woods were another matter entirely.
He had to tread lightly.
There was something not quite right in these woods.
Felnore gave himself a good hard shake to remove the unsettled feeling that made the fur along his spine bristle. Keeping one ear cocked out of caution, Felnore gave into time's demands and took off running. The spongy needle carpet that covered the forest floor dampened the sounds of his footfalls. He moved with barely a whisper through the trees. A stream was to his left shoulder as he galloped northward. Head low and tail raised like a proud silver banner streaming behind him, Felnore streaked through the impenetrable gloom. He was able to see everything as clear as day as his eyes constantly scanned the forest for any signs of movement.
Hours were reduced to minutes as the passage of time was overcome by the joy of running free. The danger in these trees was very real but that did not mean he could not enjoy the moment. His thoughts turned homeward when he picked up on the scent of cloves. Clove oil in the sea of pine and fir.
Something did not belong here.
The moment the scent tickled his nose, Felnore's back-legs locked and he skidded to a standstill before he took cover behind a large lichen-covered log. His sides heaved as he breathed heavily through his nose. Panting was not possible with his mouth full of cloth. Listening carefully, he lifted his head over the log to take a look.
Nothing seemed odd or out of place. There were not footfalls or snapped twigs. He listened, stock still for minutes, but aside from the call of an owl on the hunt, all was as it should be.
Felnore did not like it. He did not trust these trees and the secrets they kept.
If his ears could not hear the threat, then his nose would root it out.
He stayed low to the ground as he scented the air for that tell-tale smell of clove. It was faint but he had a good enough nose to lock onto it and follow it to the source. All thoughts of the run were cast aside as he prowled from tree to tree, sniffing and listening for what the forest would not telling him.
As the scent grew stronger, Felnore sunk deeper into the ground until he dragged his belly and tail through the undergrowth. It was difficult to remain so low, but he forced himself to become as small a target as possible which was no easy feat for a wolf that stood a nearly eight feet tall on its hind legs.
Clove oil. He knew that smell. Any blacksmith worth their forge used the oil to coat their blades to protect them from the elements. It was a staple in the smith's trade and if there was clove oil in the forest, there would be a weapon. Or many weapons.
The smell clove oil was potent but it could not mask the tell-all scent of leather and metal forever. Felnore stilled, one paw raised slightly mid-step, as he tried to make sense of what his nose told him.
Heavy metal. Forged blades. Could it be hunters? The Silver Hand?
There was too much metal for it to just be hunters. And that was high grade leather. Elk. Deer. Werewolf hunters could not afford such things, not in such a vast quantity.
Every inch of his bulk was pressed flat as Felnore sidled up to the thickest tree trunk and ever so carefully, peered around its base.
There was the leather. And the weapons. And a wall of furred deer pelts belted at the waist with strips of seasoned elk hide.
Ulfric's Stormcloak fighters.
An entire troop of them, all armed to the teeth and covered head to toe in dirt and leaves. They were expertly camouflaged among the trees and their scent was masked under all that forest muck. None moved from where they sat, backs to the trees, heads forward, spears cradled in the crook of their arms.
Felnore tried and failed to make out the numbers. These soldiers were primed and ready to fight at a moment's noticed. It was a small miracle that they were asleep.
Stenvar's warning was all too true.
This troop was close enough to Whiterun that once out of the forest, they could march on the city in a number of hours. Felnore knew in his bones that there had to be more of these battalions hidden throughout Falkreath's vast woodland.
And what of the north? Were more of Ulfric's forces hidden in the northern hills of the Pale? By the nine Divines, what about the west?
Felnore had foolishly thought that Ulfric's Stormcloak threat would come from the east, from the Eastmarch hold where his seat of power was based. Felnore never would have believed that the leader of the Nordic uprising would be wily enough to plant his forces all over the country without being discovered. How could so many people maneuver across the region without being detected?
Felnore could see the answer in the grim faces of the sleeping rebels. They were all Nords. The sons and daughters of Skyrim. They all had families and allies in this land, the blood of their ancestors existed in the very rocks and trees. These people knew the Nine Holds better than anyone. If they wanted to move about unseen, they could easily do so.
Felnore had gravely underestimated the abilities of the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion. He had the gut-twisting feeling that he was not the only one to do so either.
The great bear was a smart bastard. And he was about to unleash hell onto an unsuspecting city. The people of Whiterun needed to be warned.
"WOLF!"
Sleeping figures suddenly sprang to life as a spear thudded into the tree that Felnore hid behind. A sentry had somehow spotted him. Felnore would have yelped in surprise. Instead he did the only sensible thing he could think in such a circumstance. He turned tail and ran like crazy.
The cry of "wolf" went up throughout the encampment. Weapons were gathered, armour readied as the entire troop rose to its feet. Much to Felnore's alarm, a series of booming barks soon followed him as he stretched out to his full stride and increased his speed.
War dogs! Dammit!
The situation had gone from bad to worse.
His only hope now lay in his speed. There was no chance he would survive a rush encounter with an entire armed troop of warriors, no matter how viciously he tore through their ranks. There were just too many of them and they would be ready for him. As for these damn mutts, they were bred to track and kill anything they were commanded to. They would not stop until they were either killed or called off by their handlers.
He did not have the stamina to fight them off and run for the plains at the same time.
So Felnore ran for his life and the lives of all those who depended on him. He ran through, over, around, and under everything in his path as the baying of the dogs followed. Loudly at first but eventually the sound grew fainter. Yet, it never stopped. The dogs kept after him and behind them, a fraction of Ulfric's forces followed.
The element of surprise was no longer theirs.
A wolf had tripped the clever trap.
A wolf on the run.
In those final hours of darkness, the wolf felt fear. Alone, running for his life, Felnore knew that eventually the strength and speed that had carried him this far would run out. He prayed to whatever deity that was listening that his legs would not give out until he crossed the threshold of the city. He could die a hundred deaths just as long as he could give his girls a fighting chance.
The toxic fear for their wellbeing drove him onward. When the tears in his paws deepened, he kept going. When the ceaseless barking began to grow louder, he dug deep and ran on. When his body began to shake as the strength of the wolf began to fade, he did not stop.
Up the shallow river he waded to hide his scent and buy some time. He staggered over slippery rocks and pushed on until he finally saw it. The rising spire of the Whiterun stood out against the empty landscape. He could make out the white crumbling walls of the ancient city and stood untouched.
There was still time to warn them.
Felnore put one paw in front of the other until he stopped feeling the ground. He pushed himself past the point of pain as his long strides began to shorten. The closer he came to the city, the harder it was to keep running. It wasn't until he tripped over himself did he realize that his body had begun to shift without him realizing it.
The wolf had carried him as far as it could. Now it was up to the man to get the job done.
On shredded palms and bloodied knees, Felnore swallowed a lungful of morning air as his senses slowly adjusted to back to human. The wolf was gone completely and he was left shaking from exhaustion and the cold.
Although every inch of his body screamed in protest Felnore hauled himself upright. His knees buckled but he just stood once more. When his legs gave way a second time he rolled onto his side and reached for the sodden trousers that had fallen from his mouth. He could not let his girls see him like this, a wild wounded animal. This was not the last image he wanted them to remember him by. Even if it killed him to do so, he would return to Whiterun as a man, not a monster.
Partially clothed, Felnore picked himself up a third time and started walking.
The very sight of him staggering half-naked out of the early morning mist startled the guards stationed at the mouth of the city. Bloody footprints trailed behind him on the ancient stones of the main road that led straight to the city gates. He looked like a harbinger of ill tidings and from the direction he had come, the faint barking of dogs could be heard.
The armoured men bearing the colours and horsehead standard of Whiterun on their shields braced themselves until one of them recognized the man who fell forward but continued crawling toward them on his hands and knees.
"Isn't that one of the Companions?"
"Yes, that's the Greymane one. What happened to him?"
"Come on then. We better help him. Companion! What has happened!"
Felnore did not have the energy to shout out the warning. Instead he waited until they came to his side and took him by the arms. Only when he was upright once more did he speak.
"Message for the Jarl. He must be warned. Warn the city. Gather defenses. The Stormcloak army is coming to attack Whiterun. They are right behind me. Hundreds of them. They are coming."
Once the words left his mouth, Felnore's body finally gave in to the strain of the past forty-eight hours. The guards struggled to share his weight between them as they looked at each other in alarm.
"You think it's true? Should we take him to the Jarl?" One of them asked, stunned from what he had heard.
"Red skies this morning. There will be blood this day. And the Companions never lie. If he says an attack is coming, then we better prepare ourselves." The other noted sagely as he draped Felnore's arm across his shoulders.
Between the two of them, the guards carried Felnore through the city's massive wooden main gates before they gave the order to have them locked and barricaded.
Word spread like wildfire as the inhabitants of Whiterun woke to the urgent hammering on their doors. Once the word had gone out, everyone was up and moving as fast as they could. The Stormcloak army was on its way to attack their city. They would be ready to meet them when they did.