Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC/plot twist or idea belongs to me. This chapter mainly sets the stage for the next ones to come and introduces a new plot toward the end. Not a lot of action, but not all of my chapters will be killing dragons and raiding Draugr tombs. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas, everyone!

"O' hear me, hear me, all the way,

oh you sweet lady, I will say:

The cold is at my door,

It makes me shiver more.

Oh, will you see my face?

To have you in my embrace.

I hear the moonlight sing.

I know what it may bring.

And if I were to change,

would you love me still?

Would you love me still?"

Francis bowed when his audience in the tavern clapped and called for an encore. "Thank you, thank you—well, thank you," he purred when Ysolda planted a kiss right on his mouth. He winked at her, and she blushed scarlet.

"What terrible format," Mikael growled at his table. He held his tankard in a white-knuckled grip, and Isben swore he saw the hair on his neck rise. To him, he looked like an angry cat. "And what a phony message! What does that even mean? This isn't romantic at all!"

Vimund shrugged his broad shoulders. "I wasn't listening to the words myself, but he sounds like a woman. Is he a bard?"

Isben spluttered and choked on his ale. He held a hand up when Vimund made to hit his back—the man would probably dislodge a few vertebrae. "If only you knew," Isben wheezed out.

Francis sat on a bench near the fire, surrounded by his admirers. They urged him to perform another song, and he eventually complied when Ysolda gave him another kiss.

Mikael was close to bursting.

While Francis entertained his audience with another song, Isben and Vimund engaged in conversation. "I've my next stop for ingredients: The White Phial in Windhelm."

Vimund nodded. "I'm headed to Eastmarch myself in the morning. I have a contract to clear a den out of beasts and the like. Don't suppose you wouldn't mind the extra company?"

Isben chuckled, "I think I'll welcome a bodyguard with open arms, friend."

"Aye, good. Traveling by carriage is much easier than by foot." Vimund looked over at Francis who had just received another round of applause. "And I can do without that fop."

"Actually..." Isben sighed.

The following morning, Isben, Vimund, and Francis loaded up the carriage and checked the team's tack. Francis sniffed when he saw the ingredients and potions stocked in the crates—nothing worth stealing.

Vimund had his arms crossed and watched the thief. "You keep strange company, Dragonborn. He's half my size."

Isben gave the horses a carrot and shrugged his shoulders. "He's useful."

"Yes, indeed, I am," Francis said as he sauntered over to them. He smiled up at Vimund—something he didn't like doing—and extended a hand. "You've got to be the biggest Nord I've ever seen. Francis Ferdinand at your service, Big Man."

Vimund reached to shake Francis's hand, but Isben scrambled to fling their arms apart. Isben narrowed his eyes at Francis, and, as a second thought, checked his coin purse.

Francis pouted and handed it back to him. "You're killing my fun, Benny."

Vimund grunted, but shook Francis's hand anyway. Francis's eyes bulged when he felt the bones in his palm creak and groan. "Vimund. Pleasure to meet you, Francesca."

"F-Francesca! That's not my name—"

"Come on, hop in," Isben said, securing his coin pouch at his side. He took his place in the driver seat and grabbed the reins. "I won't wait forever."

Francis fumed as he climbed into the back of the wagon. "I am not a woman," he said when the wagon started rolling.

"Could have fooled me. You look like one. All dainty and feminine."

The thief harrumphed and crossed his arms and legs. "I have proof that I am male."

"Your Adam's apple doesn't count—wait, you don't have one of those, either. Aye, a woman."

Francis gawked and clicked his tongue. "Dragonborn, why must all of your companions have something against me? My heart's wounded! My pride! Little Francis—think of Little Francis!"

Isben laughed and urged his team into a faster trot. "I don't know, Francis, Vimund might be onto something there."

Francis squawked and started undoing the belts on his leather armor. "Ohoho, aren't you two just clever!" He pulled his trousers down and pointed between his legs. "See? Penis. Penis equals male. Therefore, I am—"

"Looks like a pinkie to me, Francesca."

Shêza entered The Bannered Mare after meeting with Jarl Balgruuf and made her way up the stairs. She was in a tried mood; the Jarl had said he would consider sharing rations with her family, and would only consider it when winter hit. Her father would not be pleased.

She knocked on Isben's door and tapped her foot impatiently. When he didn't answer, she knocked again. Frowning, she headed back downstairs. There were only a few places the twatty elf could be.

"He's not here," Hulda said over her counter. Shêza looked at the woman, and she continued, "He had to make another delivery. To Windhelm, I think. He should be back in a week, miss."

Shêza frowned at the news and exited the inn, ignoring Hulda's invitation to have a drink and bite to eat. Why wouldn't he wait for her? Didn't the fool know that he was bound to get himself killed without her watching his back?

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. This twat was more trouble than he was worth, she knew it. She pushed open the city gates and sniffed the air. She caught a whiff of him, as well as Vimund and the scent of fourteen different women—the idiot thief, definitely.

First, she'd finish her business in Whiterun. She was to purchase tomatoes for Petra, and the whole pack looked forward to the soup she'd prepare for them. Then, she'd backtrack to her home and let her father know that she'd be absent for at least a week. And then she'd follow the twatty elf's stupid scent.

"So, Vimund, was it?" Francis asked once he calmed down a bit. Vimund grunted from his side of the carriage. "You're a big man, Vimund. All bulk and muscle. Like an ox. Or a mammoth. Just as hairy as one, too. Eugh, how can you stand it?"

"The hair? Nord women don't mind."

"Because they're just as hairy?"

"No," Vimund said, "because they aren't little girly Imperials. Aye: Nord women are the finest women."

Francis scoffed and raised his chin. "Also the hairiest. And I'll have you know, I am not girly. I'm pickpocket size."

"Oh, a thief. Dragonborn, he's a criminal, aye." He reached for his axe. "He's filth."

"Filth?" Francis shook his head. "And what is it that you do? Kill things? At least I only steal valuables. But you, you Giant, you steal lives. Shame, shame."

Vimund's brow creased and he glared at the little man.

"Silence speaks volumes," Francis said. He sighed and waved a hand. "But no matter. Now that we understand each other a bit more..." He eyed Vimund and smiled. "Are you proportional?"

Vimund crossed his arms and smirked. "My staggering size further dwarfs your pinkie, Francine."

"It isn't how much you got," Francis drawled in defense. "It's how you use it. Ask any of my conquests. I haven't failed to disappoint."

Vimund rolled his eyes. "Alright, Francine. Aye."

A sudden breeze had Francis huddle into the cart. He shivered and rubbed his hands together. "A might bit chilly, no?"

Vimund barked a laugh and sneered. "Girly little Imperial. Dragonborn, Francine's cold back here."

"There should be some cloaks in the crates," Isben said. "I don't need you freezing, Francis."

Francis rubbed his chest and pouted. "At least I'm not female. Dibella, this feels terrible." He rummaged through a crate and pulled out a fur cloak. He wrapped it about himself so only his eyes were visible. He quivered when he saw Vimund's shoulders shaking with laughter. "Don't you say a word, you hairball."

Vimund guffawed. "Poor little Francesca."

"I'll steal your mother," Francis muttered.

Petra was mending a tear in Nyssa's leathers when Askel pushed aside the divider to the servant's quarters. He grinned at her and motioned to the bundle of clothes in his arms. "They're Brute Ivor's and Ritta's, Serf-Sister Petra. Where should I—"

"Please place them here, Brother Askel," she said while patting the spot beside her. He placed the laundry down and smiled. Askel's smile was infectious, and she found herself smiling back. When he smiled, his whole face seemed to light up, and pleasant crinkles formed in the corners of his eyes.

"You should rest, Serf-Sister. You look wan and tired."

Petra sighed and continued sewing. "Work will not rest, Brother, and neither will I."

He cupped her face and ran his thumbs over the dark circles beneath her eyes. "You will break yourself if you do not rest, Serf-Sister. Please, at least for an hour. You should eat something as well. I will have Helena bring you something."

She brought his hands away from her face, but he clasped hers in his. "That is very kind of you, Brother—"

"Please call me by name, Petra."

She nodded. "I cannot possibly disobey Nuel's orders." She looked at the laundry Askel had dropped off. "This just adds to my list."

Askel frowned and squeezed her hands. "Then let me help. I'm sure Helena is around here somewhere, and the two of us will make work pass by faster."

Petra smiled and shook her head. "You have a very good heart, Askel. But this is a servant's duty. You are a hunter, and it would be a dishonor if you sank to our level."

"I enjoy sinking to your level, Petra." He rested his forehead on hers but recoiled. He pressed his hand to her forehead and wore a worried look. "By Hircine, Petra! You're burning up!"

She brushed his hand away. "It's nothing, Askel. I usually have a fever during the change of seasons. It'll be gone by tomorrow, I'm sure."

He didn't look convinced. "You should be resting, Petra. A fever can morph into something far more severe if you aren't careful."

"I will be careful, Askel."

He cupped her cheek again and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Promise me?"

Before she could answer him, the divider was pushed aside and Ivor stood in the entryway. He glared at Askel before glowering at her. She shrank beneath the intensity of that look—just what had she done to anger him? She'd patched up his vest, she cleaned his fox pelt. Was he not satisfied with her work?

"The other hunters are ready, Askel. You are delaying us," Ivor said. He watched as Askel said his goodbyes to Petra and left the quarters, but not without the two males narrowing their eyes at each other. Once he was gone, he turned his full attention to her.

"Brute Ivor," she murmured, not at all liking the disgusted look on his face. She ducked her head when he stood in front of her. "I-is everything in order, Brute Ivor?"

He swooped down and pinned one arm above her, trapping her, while his free hand held her chin. She squeaked and fumbled with her needle, accidentally pricking herself. She felt small and insignificant with those furious opal-green eyes boring into her. She pressed herself against the rock wall behind her, trying to become one with it.

"You have duties to see to, servant."

She flushed and stammered, "Y-yes, B-Brute Ivor."

His eyes darted about her face, taking in the terror on her pale and tired features. She looked like a mouse: meek and caught by a cat. He wondered if that was what his mother looked like when her parents murdered her. He gripped her chin and wrist tighter, making her whimper.

"You are not to waste your time with other members of this pack. You are a servant and outsider, undeserving of such privileges."

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. "Y-yes, Brute Ivor."

He let go of her chin, but didn't make to move. He stared her down, and she felt like she was prey he was about to fell.

She bit her lip to keep from sobbing, and his eyes were drawn to the action. His face softened a fraction when he saw the marks forming on her skin, but it quickly hardened into a steel mask. "I expect that laundry done when I return from the hunt. As does Huntress Ritta."

She jerked her head up and down and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. "Yes, Brute Ivor." She cast her eyes down and sniffled. She immediately berated herself for betraying her emotions to him, and flinched when he raised his hand.

He froze and glanced at his hand and then at her. "Petra—"

"I-I will get right to work, Brute Ivor." She screwed her eyes closed when a tear trailed down her cheek. "Please don't hit me," she squeaked.

His jaw hung agape, and he stared at his hand as if it was foreign to him. "N-no, Petra—"

"Ivor? The hunt is about to begin—oh." Nuel raised a brow at the scene in front of him and had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling when he saw Petra in tears. Ivor released Petra's wrist and got to his feet. "Ah, I see our little servant is once again neglecting her duties. It's becoming quite a common thing, dear Petra."

Petra rubbed her wrist and chanced making eye contact with Ivor. She looked away immediately and didn't see the guilt on his face. "Forgive me, Adviser Nuel. I was just about to resume my duties."

"Were you." Nuel rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the Alpha's nephew. "As for you, Ivor, I suggest you join the others. It'd be a shame if a Brute of your caliber missed the hunt. What are you trying for tonight? Bear again?"

"Elk."

"Ah," Nuel breathed. "Well, may Hircine guide your arrows, Ivor. I will see you at supper." He nodded his head at the hunter and frowned when Ivor looked back over his shoulder at Petra. Nuel stepped in his line of sight. "Good hunting, Ivor."

Ivor left the servants' quarters, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Nuel exhaled and turned to look Petra up and down. "On your feet, girl, and be quick about it." She climbed to her feet, but not without almost tripping on her dress. Nuel frowned and tilted her chin up. "And what are these? Bruises?"

"Th-they're nothing, Adviser Nuel."

Nuel sneered and prodded at the bruises. "Now, isn't this a surprise? Your precious 'Brute' Ivor has finally put a mark of his own on you. Your heart must be leaping in joy, Petra. Why, it's a shame he doesn't mark you more often. These suit you. Wouldn't you agree, Petra?"

Petra swallowed and had no choice but to look Nuel in the eye as she whispered, "Yes, Adviser Nuel."

"Now, why a Brute of any sort would want you, a scrawny, gangly, timid little servant is beyond me. Oh, you poor dear, Petralaine. Can you think of any reasons? Hm?" Nuel leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Do you think yourself pretty, Petra?"

She bit her lip and shook her head.

"Do speak up, girl."

"N-no, Adviser Nuel."

"'No' what?"

Petra's arms shook as she said, "No, I do not think myself pretty."

Nuel smiled and nodded. He curled a lock of her hair around his finger. "And do you think your red hair to be desirable, Petra?"

Again, she responded 'no.'

"And your scent?" He nuzzled her neck and breathed in her scent of mountain flowers. "Do you think any male would want to smell that?"

"No," she squeaked. "They would find it repulsive."

"Oh, indeed they would, Petra," Nuel said. He straightened his posture and folded his hands behind his back. "Dearest," he sighed when he noticed her body trembling, "do not upset yourself! You are a servant; your duty is to serve, not to be fanciful. You leave that responsibility to a strong, desirable huntress. Oh, dear girl." He cupped her cheek and wiped away a tear with his thumb. "Dear, dear Petralaine. What would your parents think if they saw you like this? All teary-eyed and puffy-cheeked."

She ducked her head.

Nuel clicked his tongue. "Oh, I shouldn't have said that. I apologize, Petralaine; it was cruel of me to bring them up. You must be so lonely without them. 'Tis a shame, indeed." His mouth twitched when he saw her squeeze her eyes closed. "And your father was such a kind man and a valuable servant. We suffered such a loss when he past away."

Petra blinked away tears and stammered out, "Please, Adviser Nuel. I-I should return to my duties—"

"He was always so good to you, wasn't he? Ossian would always have a treat for you and your mother, no? It pains me to know that all you have are memories of your parents. Fay's crochet never failed to impress the pack, and Ossian's knowledge in alchemy always saved us from illness and injury. Well, all but one life, of course."

Petra swallowed and turned her head away when Nuel tried to cup her cheek again. Nuel narrowed his eyes at her, but kept his hands at his sides. "I do hope you keep their memory close, dear girl. It'd be a shame if we were to forget about all of their hardships for the pack. Why, just the sight of you reminds me of them. Oh, but what am I saying! You are a servant, just as they were."

"Th-their memory is with me forever, Adviser Nuel," Petra whispered.

"Good," he purred. "Now. I'll leave you to your duties. Hircine knows you have many of them, and I'm sure your to-do list will only grow by the evening meal." His eyes held a disturbing degree of promise, and Petra's shoulders slumped. "Do try to stay fresh and not wear yourself out, Petra. The pack would be most displeased if you tire." He offered a curt smile, his eyes roving over the bruises on her chin, before taking his leave.

When the divider closed behind him, Petra sank to her knees and held onto her arms, her body shaking with sobs.

"And that's why they say 'ladies first,'" Francis said with a firm bob of his head. "Mm-hmm."

"If you say so, Francesca."

"We should make it to Ivarstead around nightfall," Isben said.

Francis pouted and stamped his foot. "Ivarstead? Again? Benny. We need a change of scenery. With some wine, a warm bed, some women—"

"Pipe down, Francine. I'm trying to sleep here."

Francis grumbled and wrapped his cloak tighter about himself.

"Fran," Isben said over his shoulder, "if you want to sit up here, I can teach you how to drive the carriage."

"Fran? Oh, not you too!" Francis huffed, but climbed into the driver seat.

"You don't like 'Fran'?" Isben asked with a smile.

Francis twisted his lips and shrugged. "It's alright. Better than Francesca or Francine."

"How about Franny?" Vimund guffawed.

"Oh, Dibella, just unman me already," the thief groaned. He took the reins from Isben and shifted them from hand to hand. "So, I just hold them like this, yes? Yes. And then I..."

"To control the horses to the right, you use the right rein. And for the left, you use the left. Simple, Fran."

"Hm." Francis tapped the reins against the team's flanks and was rewarded with a faster pace. "Ooh, I see, I see." He tapped them again, and the horses broke into a faster canter. "Oh, I like that."

"Now, keep it steady—slow down, Francis, you're going to—Francis!" Isben yelped and clung to the driver's seat when Francis whipped the reins against the horses. They burst into a sprint, sending dirt and gravel up in their wake.

Vimund shouted and grabbed hold onto the carriage for dear life. "Oy, lad! We'll crash at this speed!"

Isben tried to wrestle the reins from Francis, but the thief was relentless. He threw his head back and laughed when his hair was whipped out of his face by the wind. "Oh, Dibella! Faster, horsies, faster! That's what Ysolda said to me last night, too. Faster, faster!"

"Francis, no—"

"Oh, feel that, Dragonborn! The wind! The sky! The—"

"TREE!"

He yanked back on the reins with all his might, and the horses skidded to a stop. Isben was almost sent flying out of his seat from the abrupt stop, and Vimund didn't dare let go of the carriage.

Francis giggled and clapped his hands together. "That was fun," he said with a giddy, high-pitched squeak. "Let's do it again, Dragonborn."

Isben slumped in his seat and shook his head. They'd come an inch—an inch—from crashing into a gnarled old tree. The horses snorted and stamped their hooves nervously.

Vimund risked letting go of the carriage to take a glance at Francis. The thief's hair was disheveled and windblown—he didn't want to know what his own hair looked like. Isben's was in the same state, chunks of it free from its holder and hanging in his face.

"Aye. I think I'll walk next time."

Shêza made her way to Ivor's chambers, occasionally having to stop and share her recent adventures with a pack member. They were surprised and proud that one of their own was working with the Dragonborn to restore order to Skyrim, and she received many congratulations for her efforts.

If only they knew their Dragonborn was a complete twat.

She pushed open the divider and smiled when she saw Ivor making a necklace out of a bear tooth. She set her basket of tomatoes down and sat across from him to watch his handiwork. "Is it for Helena? She loves it when you carve for her and make necklaces."

He grunted and continued smoothing down the edges of the tooth, never lifting his gaze to his cousin. It was roughly the shape of a diamond and brighter than any tooth she'd ever seen.

"It's very pretty, Ivor."

"It's for Ritta," he gruffly said.

Shêza frowned and arched a brow. "Ritta? Nuel's daughter? Since when did you take an interest in her?"

He sighed and selected a piece of leather. "You'd be surprised by how our pack changes when you are absent, Shêzanaré. Especially with what you learn."

"What are you saying? You're the only one who I've seen today who's changed, Ivor." He chose another piece of leather, and she shook her head and held up another one for him. "Use this one for the tie. It's darker than the rest."

He plucked the thin leather cord from her fingers and fastened it through the hole he chiseled in the tooth.

Shêza leaned back and shook her head. "Ritta, did you say? Nuel's spoiled, barbaric daughter who enjoys torturing her meals before she finishes them off."

"Some of our pack members have little restraint against the lycanthropy, cousin," Ivor said.

"And yet there are those who have no restraint against it. Ivor, are you sure this is what you want?"

He growled and glared at her. "Oh? And since when did you care for my person, Shêzanaré? Shouldn't you be trying to lick your father's backside instead?"

She hissed and bared her teeth at him. "Watch how you speak of our Alpha, Ivor. And yes, I do care about you. You're my cousin and part of my family. Even if you are a skeever bum, I still love you. Perhaps you should try to find a woman who has the same tolerance as I do to take as a mate."

He spat and jumped to his feet. He stormed out of his chambers, but stopped in his tracks when Shêza called after him, "It would look better around Petra's neck."

He spun around and barked back, "So too would a rope!" He resumed his march and turned a corner, and he took a step back when he collided with something.

Or someone.

Petra stumbled backward from the impact and tripped over her feet. Her hair hung in her eyes as she hurried to collect the clothes she'd dropped while Ivor stood rooted in place, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Forgive me," she murmured. She held his vest out for him—the vest that was supposed to be cleaned hours ago—and trembled when he reached for it. He withdrew his hand and stared down at her, feeling something twist in his chest when he noticed her body shaking. She shrunk when she heard him growl. "I-I'm sor—"

"Sister Petralaine?"

Ivor growled louder when Askel appeared behind Petra and helped her to her feet. He curled his lip and wrinkled his nose at his Hunt-Brother, not at all liking the way his hands lingered on Petra's shoulders.

"Sister Petralaine, I've been looking for you everywhere," Askel said, not paying Ivor any mind. "Helena wanted you to sit by her during the evening meal, and—"

"And shouldn't you be out hunting, Askel?" Ivor asked with more than a hint of annoyance present in his voice.

Askel looked away from Petra and blinked at Ivor. "Hunt-Brother. Forgive me, I did not notice you—"

"Of course."

Askel cleared his throat and took in a breath. "I'm not part of this hunt's team, Hunt-Brother. And the hunt has already started."

Ivor's brow furrowed and his eyes flashed. "Why wasn't I made aware of this?"

"Forgive me, Hunt-Brother," Askel said. He inclined his head and continued, "I was under the impression that you wanted to finish crafting Ritta's neckace." Petra shook in his arms, and she turned her head toward Askel's neck when Ivor glanced at her. She felt sweat trickle down the back of her neck, and she absently raised a hand to her forehead. She groaned quietly when she felt how warm her skin was.

"I didn't want to disturb you, Hunt-Brother," Askel added.

Ivor balled his hands into fists and snarled, "Perhaps you should think first before falling under one of your 'impressions,' Askel."

"And perhaps so should you before you hurt our pack members with your words! What was that about a rope, Brother?"

Ivor opened his mouth to defend himself, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, but Petra chose that moment to push herself free of Askel's arms. She threw his vest at his feet and stole away from the two males to somewhere—somewhere where a worthless servant could be alone.

Ivor didn't miss the tears staining her cheeks. Before he could chase after her, Askel blocked his path and growled at him. Ivor returned the gesture and felt his blood boil when Askel still refused to move.

Shêza quietly walked toward them and looked the two of them up and down. She sniffed in disgust and rolled her eyes. "The stench of male idiocy is choking me, Hunt-Brothers. Now stop being twats before I make you stop. Unless you want Garald to hear about this, of course."

Askel took a step back and lowered his head toward her. "Hunt-Sister, forgive me. I didn't mean to—"

She held a hand up and waved him away. "Go accompany Helena and Nyssa for supper, Askel. Tell them I'll be there shortly." She watched as Askel nodded and took his leave before turning a critical eye on her cousin. "And you," she started, taking a step toward him and smacking his shoulder. "You can bring these to Petra." She forced the basket of tomatoes in his arms and grinned wolfishly when he scrunched his face up indignantly. "Is there a problem, cousin?"

"I hate tomatoes," he growled.

"But Petra loves them, and our pack is partial to them."

"I don't care a fig for what Petra likes or dislikes," he shot back.

Shêza's smile only grew, and she tilted her head to the side. "Well, lucky for you, I don't care about what you care for. Now be a good Brute and deliver them. Before I make you eat them," she added when he looked close to protesting again. He stalked away, growling and muttering beneath his breath, and swore that one day Shêza would taste her own bitter medicine.

And it would taste worse than these foul, thrice-damned tomatoes.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Vimund asked as he joined Isben near Ivarstead's stables. The Dragonborn was staring up at the mountain, his eyes distant and his expression blank. "High Hrothgar: home of the Greybeards." Vimund shook his head and exhaled. "Aye. One of Skyrim's true wonders—a true Nordic virtue."

"It's strange," Isben said. He rubbed his throat when he felt the itchings of a Word press against his mind. "My answers are literally up a mountain, and I'm at its base, wondering if I should make the climb. It's a metaphor personified," he sighed.

"Not what you're used to, aye?"

"What is? A mountain? We have mountains in Cyrodiil," Isben said.

Vimund chuckled, "No, not the mountain. Fate. Destiny. A calling."

"Every Man and Mer has a destiny," Isben said. "I just thought mine was in the University."

"You're having second thoughts, lad?"

Isben dug his boot in the ground and frowned. "Not second thoughts exactly. But I'm afraid curiosity is the downfall of every being."

"Or the upbringing," Vimund said. "Aye. Without curiosity, nothing would ever be accomplished. It's a grace in this world, and for Men to ignore it is a sin. Aye, a sin." He clapped Isben on the shoulder and added, "I'm going to go see where Francesca went off to. Probably will find him between some poor wench's legs." He rolled his eyes and exhaled before heading toward the inn.

Isben pulled his cloak tighter around himself and stared up at High Hrothgar. He blinked and squinted his eyes when he made out a vague shape hovering over its peak. He blinked again, and the shape was gone. He shrugged, brushing it off as a figment of his imagination.

Ivor let himself into the servants' chambers, the basket of tomatoes held as far out as possible from his person. The chambers were empty, and he figured that the servants were already in the dining quarters around the fire. He grunted and placed the basket of tomatoes down near Petra's furs before hurrying past the divider.

He wasn't surprised when she wasn't at the evening meal; she'd been skipping more and more of them recently—probably to plot his demise or murder another innocent pack member, just as her parents did. But Askel was there, and the rat had to choose to sit right across from him, the fire the only barrier between them. Oh, he wanted to carve that small smirk off of his Hunt-Brother's face.

Shêzanaré ate her meal quickly, said her goodbyes to her sisters and father, and gave him a warning glare before leaving their sanctuary. Off to go serve the Dragonborn-mutt already, he mused to himself. Even at this late hour. What a loyal dog.

He ate his supper quietly, minding his own person and trying—trying—to ignore Askel's infuriatingly soft, pleasant voice. He swore his Hunt-Brother mentioned her name loud enough to Helena and Nyssa just for him to hear.

"The stable?" Francis said with a pout. "You're making me sleep in the stable? What have I ever done to deserve this? Oh, wait, I know." He produced Isben's pouch of gold from inside his trousers and handed it to him. "Forgot about that. No hard feelings, yes?"

Isben sighed and snatched his purse back. "I'm beginning to think you're targeting me, Francis."

Francis beamed and peered down his trousers. "No, I've about three more purses in here belonging to various citizens of Skyrim. If you ever need any money—"

"I'll be sure to make you thoroughly clean the septims before even asking," Isben said. He rolled out several blankets for Francis. "I don't want to chance you upsetting Wilhelm. Then we'll all have to sleep in the stables."

Francis sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "The last time I slept in a stable was—actually, it was quite recently! Just last month, I met the most buxom wench who had the fullest—"

Isben closed his eyes and inwardly groaned as Francis regaled him with yet another story of his many trysts.

"Oh, Benny," Francis drawled, slinging his arm around Isben's waist. "You should have seen her mounds heave. Don't you have any bawdy stories of your own? No bodice-rippers?"

"I'm selective," Isben said.

Francis pouted and stamped his foot. "We need to find you a woman, and fast. Man needs a few good rolls every couple of weeks. I know a few lassies who wouldn't mind basking in the Dragonborn's touch. What say you?"

Isben swatted Francis's hand away when he felt his fingers creeping toward his coin purse. "Perhaps another time, Francis." He untangled the thief's arm from his person and smiled. "Good night."

Francis sat in his furs, his legs crossed and his arms folded over his chest. "Oh, yes, good night, good night. Just leave Francis and Little Francis here without anything to quell their desire." His eyes sparkled and he smiled a toothy grin at Isben. "You don't suppose that bard is here, no? What was her name? Liny? Lyn?"

"Limpy," Isben tossed over his shoulder before leaving the stable.

"Limpy?" Francis recoiled his head and frowned. He hissed and hunched his shoulders. "You think you're so clever, don't you, Dragonborn!" With his keen hearing, he heard Isben laughing from outside the stable.

Helena trotted throughout the tunnels of her home, Dagfinn clutched tightly in her arms. She quietly slipped past the divider into Ivor's room and stifled a giggle when she saw her cousin sprawled out in his furs, his mouth open as he snored loud enough to wake the dead in Sovngarde.

She knelt by his side and prodded his chest. "Ivor," she whispered. His reply was another snore. She twisted her lips and poked his cheek. "Iv, please wake up."

His eyes flew open with a start and he uttered a few more snuffles before blinking away the sleep from his eyes. "Helena?" He rubbed his face and groaned when his arm muscles pinched.

"Ivor, it's Petra—" He groaned and flopped onto his stomach. He yawned and closed his eyes. Helena huffed and shook his shoulder, not caring that he whimpered when she touched a sore muscle. "Ivor, don't go back to sleep! This is important!"

"Petra's sleeping, as is the rest of the pack. Go back to your chambers, Helena," came his groggy and muffled response.

"But Petra isn't sleeping! She's not in her den, and the other servants said she didn't return from her chores at the river!" Ivor turned his head toward his cousin, a frown etched in his brow. Helena grabbed his arm and tugged on it. "Oh, please, Ivor! I have a bad feeling, and I know something happened to—" Before she could finish her sentence, Ivor was already out of his furs and pulling his vest on. He strode past Helena to the entrance of their home, and she had to run to keep up with his long strides.

She grabbed his hand to keep from being left behind.

"Where is your sister?" he asked.

"Nyssa went to tell Father," Helena said. They ducked beneath the fallen tree at the entrance and hurried toward the river. "Petra... Petra will be fine, yes?" She looked up at her cousin when he didn't reply. "Ivor?"

His face was drawn in anger, but her father often wore that same expression when she or Nyssa went against his wishes; there was also worry and fear in his eyes. Helena bit her lip when she felt her stomach flutter uneasily.

They rounded the bend that led toward the river, and Helena screeched when she saw Petra's still figure lying in the grass at the riverbank. She tore her hand out of Ivor's and made a mad dash toward her friend, but was pulled back by her cousin.

He held her tight in his arms as he saw something Helena didn't. Looming over Petra, its hulking frame barely visible in the darkness, was a werewolf.

Ooooo. DUN DUN DUNNNNNN. Thoughts?