Disclaimer, disclaimer. Sorry for the sort of late update, readers! I've been busy with projects and exams, so I haven't had much time to work on a new chapter! But I'm back! This is my longest chapter yet, and hopefully I will never reach this wordlength again. Ugh. Too much. After this chapter, we might head back to Shêza's home and see what the Black-Coats are up to. I know there are Ivor-lovers out there who might feel a bit Ivor-deprived. Sosorry :D As always, enjoy! And Happy Easter!

A breeze disturbed the silence in the forest—

Shêza turned her head to the side when she felt something tickle her cheek. It was a feather-light touch—tender, warm, and pleasant. She tried to open her eyes, but it was as if they were sealed with wax. Her eyelids refused to cooperate, and they felt as if they weighed as much as a crate of bricks. However, she did manage to utter a sound from the back of her throat, her tongue feeling thick and rough like sandpaper, and she was rewarded with another tickling touch.

—the leaves in the trees rustling, the wind carrying with it the scent of prey. She inhaled, her body quivering when she smelled the elk. Saliva oozed from the corners of her mouth, and she licked her chops before dropping to all fours and creeping along the shadows, ever careful not to make the smallest of sounds.

Opening her senses, she took in a whiff. She would have furrowed her brow if her body was in a healthier state—just why did she feel so vulnerable? She knew that scent, and she knew now what was touching her: fingers.

Fingers stained from years of alchemy.

Her stomach flipped as she registered she was not standing up. She was on her back, but what she was resting on was foreign to her. She knew she was not on the ground or floor of a building; no, she felt elevated. The surface was too soft, and she sank in it a bit. She tried to sit herself up, but the only action she could accomplish was a twitch in her fingers. She groaned again, not at all liking this situation.

"Shh."

She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that she wanted nothing to do with this soft, cushion-like surface. That, and she wanted her arms and legs back. Her beastblood stirred in annoyance; wolves were not meant to be paralyzed or caged in their own bodies.

Secunda was bright, her moonlight exposing the forest just enough for her eyes to lock onto the elk. The beast was grazing, unaware that its death was just a handful of feet away. Anticipation sparked throughout her entire being, and she could not help but to pant in excitement, not caring that the elk heard her breaths and became rigid and alert.

Vertigo overtook her as those fingers caressed the back of her neck—at least, it felt like the back of her neck—and lifted her head up—up off of what, she could only guess. She wanted to whimper in relief when cool water ran down her throat. With her tongue no longer feeling like a breadloaf that had been stale for two eras, she licked her lips. Her fingers gave another twitch when this time, instead of water, she tasted something foul beyond comparison. She gagged, she knew she did, but he was determined that she drink every drop of whatever in Hircine's name he was forcing her to down.

It followed its first instinct.

The beginnings of a growl brewed in her throat, but it came out as a wheeze. Her teeth lightly clicked together as she felt pressure build in her gums. The wolf's hold on her was interrupted when sudden pain coursed through her body.

It ran. Away from her, the danger, and toward the thicker parts of the forest, hoping to lose her in the twisting trees and branches. Her body responded to the challenge: the hair on the back of her neck rose, her lips retracted as her pants intensified, and her legs carried her that much closer to her objective.

It was light: blinding, utterly pure white light. He had pulled back an eyelid, and all she could make out was white. No other color, no image—not even an outline. For a moment, she panicked, wondering if she was blind. Her toes and fingers tapped against the bed, the fear in her veins giving some feeling back to her body.

"Easy. You'll hurt yourself."

She had it, now. She sprang forward, her claws digging and ripping into the elk's flank, forcing its hind legs to buckle and bring the beast down. It tried to buck, but a quick smack threw its antlers away from her. She climbed over its back, her claws leaving lines of red along its body. She opened her mouth—

She would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the statement if she could. He was hurting her. As if he could read her thoughts, the light vanished, and she was once again bathed in purple hues. She tried to lift her head up, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"It's too soon. You still need your rest."

Again: did he not know how foolish he sounded? She was through with resting. How could any werewolf sleep with the wolf prowling in their mind, growling and snapping at shadows? His next action confused her, as he cradled her neck once more. Before she could discern what his intentions were, her lips were nudged open, and down came another unappetizing liquid. She grunted, thinking herself ever the foolish hopeful—wishful thinking, no?—and let him rest her head back onto the pillow. Her mind started to separate from her body again, and before she could lose herself completely to darkness, she heard him.

"Sweet dreams of the Hunt, Shêzanaré."

—and sank her teeth into its neck.

"She keeps making sounds," Francis said with a yawn as he stretched out on a chair.

Isben tucked the blanket around Shêza and wore a smile that Francis did not see. "Let us hope that she is having a good dream, then."

"Hmph." Francis twisted his body, cracking the bones in his back. "I know why I make sounds in my sleep," he said with a suggestive lilt in his voice. He smirked when Isben's ears turned a light shade of pink. "Hopefully she's not having any of those dreams—actually, I think they might help her disposition toward anything and everything on Nirn. Go forth and dream, Dragon-Lady, go forth and dream. You have mine and Dibella's blessings."

Isben shook his head and busied himself with preparing another potion. "She shouldn't have woken up so soon. Her body's resisting the antidote's effects."

Francis wiped a finger under his nose and studied Isben. "Maybe it's in her blood," he said carefully.

"Perhaps she's had this antidote before?" Isben thought to himself, too occupied with his work and thoughts to pay Francis any mind. The thief also suspected his short lapses of sleep had something to do with his poor focus.

Francis yawned again, not bothering to cover his mouth. "As entertaining as it is watching you pulverize ingredients, I think it's time Little Francis and I hop to bed."

"Yes, yes," Isben said over his shoulder. "Go back to your room."

"You'll be fine here?" Francis asked. Even so, he stood from his chair and turned his body toward the door.

"Mm-hm. The Butcher's behind bars; she's safe now."

"And thank Dibella," Francis said. "A shame if those legs were suddenly removed, no? Those long, nice legs." He huffed and jutted a lip out. "I wish I had nice, long legs." When Isben didn't respond, Francis shrugged and took his leave.

Isben swayed on his feet and leaned against the table he was using as a makeshift alchemy station for support. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and blinked the sleep from his eyes. He fought his body's plea to sleep, but as he considered collapsing into the chair and finding some shut-eye, his attempts seemed more and more pointless. Five minutes couldn't hurt, and surely even a few hours would be harmless—

He looked at Shêza and creased his brow. The bruises around her eyes and her swollen shoulder were ugly reminders of what could have been, and they strengthened his resolve to stay awake. With a shake of his head, he turned back to his work and finished his antidote. He nearly spilled the potion over when a pang shot through his forehead. He paused abruptly and brought his fingers up to his temples, delicately prodding at his skin. His heart thudded a beat faster when more of that stinging pain erupted in his mind, this time behind his eyes. He sucked in a breath, hoping to calm his trembling body, but he choked when something clawed at his throat.

His vision in one eye went black and his skin felt like an oven as it heated up to unbearable levels. He'd felt that intense heat before—able to burn bricks and turn them into ash. With a start, he chanced glancing down when he felt something dig into his neck. Once he did look, the sight alone making him fall to his knees and then onto his side, he wished he never did.

He was petrified to see that his own fingers had drawn blood from his throat.

Fevers are most disorienting, Petra concluded as her head throbbed and skin burned. She didn't dare to open her eyes completely; she settled with just peeping her eyes open into a squint. The candlelight reflected off of the sickroom ceiling was too much to tolerate. That, and she had a feeling that if she opened her eyes, her vision would twist and turn in the strangest of dances and she would hallucinate again.

She'd never hallucinated before—well, there was that one time when she mistook a stick as a piece of jerky, but that was prompted by an empty, grumbling stomach—and though the images confused her, she found some comfort in seeing him of all people wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Sometimes she'd hear him play his flute (he'd improved vastly since he was a boy), and other times she'd pick up his baritone voice murmuring a nursery rhyme. She knew he hummed time to time, when no one was listening to him or when he thought no one would hear him, like whenever he fletched arrows.

It was silly, she knew it; just a foolish female's equally foolish imagination.

Apart from her burning skin and her sweaty hair matted to her neck and forehead, there was an agitating pulsing at the small of her back. She tried shifting into a more comfortable position, but regretted the action once her sensitive skin protested from the unwanted friction. Sighing, she tried rubbing her back. The effort was too much for her, and she huffed as she moved her arms back on either side of her body. That was when she smelled it.

She knew that somewhere out there, there was a Divine or Daedra laughing at her. Probably Hircine, she thought with a frown. After all, she was a useless hunter and an even more worthless werewolf. On top of the smells of sickness, sweat, and urine, there was the smell of her monthly cycle. She wanted to curl up—she would have, if her body wasn't in such a poor state—and hide under her furs that were now sticky and soiled. Just how long had she been this miserable, and when was the last time someone changed her furs? She sighed. Of course. Don't be silly, Petra. With her in the sickroom and unable to tend to her duties, the other servants' workloads probably doubled. There was no time to spare for the lame female.

Deciding that this just would not do, she slowly pushed her covers down and stood on shaking legs with her furs bundled in her arms. She could bathe in the sanctuary where the river leaked through the cracks, but she knew better. Not only did she risk contaminating a youngling with her ill health, but she knew that she was not welcome there. Just thinking about the frowns and sneers the other females would give her made her shoulders hunch. That meant one last option: the river. She felt the fine hairs on her arms and legs stand on end in anticipation of the icy, unpleasant water.

She leaned against the cave wall for support and slowly inched her way out of the sickroom, whimpering softly all the while. She was thankful that the sickroom was the closest chamber to the entrance of the Black-Coats' sanctuary, and was even more thankful when she didn't bump into anyone of her pack. Once she was outside, she knew why no one was up and about; anyone with a sane mind wouldn't be at this hour.

She trudged through the tall grass and paused once she made her way to the riverbank. She knew Hircine was guffawing and laughing at her, for a pile of laundry and a bowl of crushed mountain flowers sat there, as if waiting for her. Or maybe it was just her imagination. Shaking her head at the laundry, she crept toward the riverbank and dipped a toe in the water. She twisted her face into a scowl. Frigid. Just as she knew it would be.

Taking in a deep breath to steel herself, she scurried into the river with her furs, immediately folding her shoulders into herself and feeling her body's reaction to the river. Without wasting any time by fretting over herself, she scrubbed her furs clean as best as she could, and then tended to herself. The cold water, though uncomfortable, made her fever tolerable. She was still warm beyond all reason, and she knew better than to think that a quick dip in the river would cure her, but it was soothing nonetheless.

She shifted her weight to one leg, then paused as an idea occurred to her. Her feet slid from the ground, and she paddled in place. With the water holding her up, it made her feel weightless and eased her cramps. The only downside was that her arms and legs were becoming sore from the effort of staying afloat. By their own accord, her limbs stopped moving, and she gently floated about the river. She didn't feel her furs slip from her grasp—or maybe she did and just couldn't bring herself to care. But before she knew it, she'd tilted her head back and closed her eyes, oblivious to the world except for the sounds of the river. It was hypnotic, she decided, hypnotic but welcoming all the same.

She didn't hear someone shout her name or the splash they made as they dove in the river after her.

"One, two, three," Francis said as he pointed at his chest, "four, five, six? Yes, six. Six bites! And not the kind I enjoy! Something was chewing on me last night."

"Maybe you have fleas," Vimund said as he tore a chunk out of a loaf of bread. "Aye. Wouldn't be surprised."

Francis huffed and crossed his arms. "Maybe you have fleas. Ever think of that? They could be making babies this very moment in your chest hair, and you wouldn't know it." He slumped in his chair and blew his lips out. "I miss the tavern wench. She kept the covers clean and the bed warm."

Vimund rolled his eyes. "Quit whining, Francesca, and make yourself useful." Before Francis could protest, he'd shoved a plate of fruit and bread in his hands. "Go downstairs and give the Dragonborn his breakfast."

"What, am I the serving boy now? Benny's completely capable of serving his own breakfast, thank you very much." When Vimund still wore a look that said he wouldn't take 'no' as an answer, Francis sighed and dragged himself down to his room, muttering to himself all the while. He nudged the door open with his boot and let himself into the room. "Room service, courtesy of—by Sanguine and Dibella, Dragonborn. You look awful."

Isben waved Francis quiet and continued hovering over Shêza, occasionally pulling back an eyelid or checking her breathing. Francis set the plate of food down and looked over Isben's shoulder as he propped Shêza against himself. "Everything alright, Benny?" the thief asked as he watched Isben empty another potion down her throat.

"She's waking up," he said.

"Oh," Francis mused. "That's good, yes?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "It's still too early for her—she's resisting the sleeping draught."

"Well, give her some more, then."

"No. Too much, and she might... Well, it won't be good."

Francis eyed the bags under the Dragonborn's eyes and the odd bruise forming on his temple. Francis narrowed his eyes and asked, "You didn't sleep well last night, did you?" When Isben didn't reply, Francis shrugged. "I didn't, either. I discovered a little surprise in my bed, and the proof is all over my chest. This will not bode well with any lady-friends of mine."

When Francis continued to ramble on about his chest, Isben shot him an irritated look that suggested if the thief didn't shut his mouth in the next five seconds, he'd be without a tongue. The idea pleased a part of his mind—pleased, but certainly did not appease, as he felt something alien in him stir in annoyance when he did not bring imagination to life. Before Isben could analyze this mood swing, she groaned and turned her head into his shoulder.

"Take cover, the Dragon's slumber is at an end," Francis whispered. Isben opened his mouth, feeling the Word sear its way toward his throat, and was just angling his face toward Francis when he caught a slight movement from the corner of his eye. Shêza blinked once, twice, and then thrice before closing her eyes again. She scrunched her face up before slowly opening her eyes again.

Francis held his breath, certain that she was going to claw one of them to pieces. He strategically hid behind Isben.

"Shêzanaré?" Isben said quietly. Her eyes flitted in the direction of his voice, but they did not focus on him. "Can you hear me, Shêza?" She made a sound at the back of her throat as an answer. "I need you to relax—" His words went ignored as she thrashed her head side to side, her fingers and toes twitching as feeling swarmed back into them. She knocked her head against his shoulder, and she blinked to clear her mind of her cloudy vision. She felt like needles were pricking every inch of her, and she opened her mouth to howl in outrage. She was mortified when no sound left her, and for a moment, she thought she'd lost her voice, but her vision chose that moment to cooperate with her.

That twat had covered her mouth with his hand—his hand with stained fingers. Her eyebrows knitted together and a spark familiar to him danced in her eyes. She glared at him and tried to growl, but it came out as a muffled wheeze. He never broke their locked gaze, and she blinked when she registered the color of his irises. Did the twat always have a hint of orange to his eyes? She couldn't remember, but then again, she was having trouble thinking to begin with at the moment. She wrinkled her nose at him and had half a mind to bite a finger off, but he shook his head at her.

"Easy," he murmured. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to move my hand away, and you aren't going to screech, yell, shout, or do that howling thing that you do. Understand?" She gave a curt nod of her head, and the both of them stayed true to their word. She licked her lips, frowning when she felt how chapped they were. "Get her some water, Francis."

Francis? She knew that name, did she not? It sounded familiar, and hearing it also sounded familiar. But she couldn't put a face to the name—

She didn't have to. The thief peered at her from behind Isben as he handed him his ridiculous dented goblet filled to its dented brim with water. She glared Death at Francis as she took sips from the goblet Isben held for her. She flexed her fingers, wondering if she could leap past the twat and dig her claws into the thief. It sounded like a splendid idea to the wolf inside of her: the little man was feeble prey, hiding behind the Dragonborn, and wouldn't put up a worthy struggle if she clamped her jaws around his neck, snapping it like a twig. She started salivating at the very thought, but that fantasy came crashing to a halt as pain erupted from her shoulder. She knocked the water out from Isben's grasp and spat, clutching at her shoulder. That only caused it to hurt more, and she hissed and bared her teeth at Isben when he tried prying her hands away.

"Stop."

It was a simple word: four letters, one syllable. But the way he said it commanded every particle of her body to freeze up, and she saw a puff of air escape his mouth, as if he had just exhaled on a cold, wintry morning. Then again, it could have been her vision going wonky once more. She whimpered as he moved her pillows so that she could sit back comfortably. She watched him as he left her bedside to dip a cloth in a basin of... something that smelled quite disgusting.

She growled when he pulled her poncho down to expose her shoulder, but he ignored her as he gently cleaned the area. Her nails were on the verge of becoming claws, but her beastblood simmered down when the pain subsided. She sighed and rolled her head away from him, staring at the side of the room closest to her. She bit back the urge to whine when she felt his presence leave her. She heard him exchange words with the prey—Francis, the swine—and soon enough, the thief had excused himself from the room. She heard chair legs scraping against the floor, and she numbly turned her head to look at him.

He uncorked a potion and held it halfway to her, as if unsure whether she'd want to drink it herself or if she'd even let him try to nurse her back to health. He cleared his throat and nodded at the potion. She narrowed her eyes at the concoction. One whiff told her that it would be most horrid to taste, but there was something else she didn't trust about it.

He sighed and slouched his shoulders. "It's not a sleeping potion, but it might make you sleepy."

She growled.

"It will help, though," he said, bringing the potion an inch closer to her. "I promise," he added as she still looked skeptical. Finally, she reached over and took the potion from him. She sniffed it a few times, her nose wrinkling further after each sniff, and slugged it back in one go. He offered her the plate of food, and when she saw the snowberries, she arched an eyebrow and snatched the tray from him. He was mesmerized that she was partial to the sour-sweet taste of the berries, but he supposed stranger things have happened. As she popped berry after berry into her mouth, licking her fingers after each one, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

He didn't know when she was done scarfing down her food like a starved hound, but he felt the weight of her gaze on him. He forced his eyes open and kept his gaze locked with hers. She was nestled in the pillows, looking content. Not calm, not peaceful, just content. He knew that if she wanted to, she could topple him and send him into next week. That was just who Shêzanaré was, and he doubted that there was ever a moment when she allowed herself to be completely at ease.

"You were out for days," he said to break the silence between them. She blinked and turned her head a bit. "You were poisoned."

Poisoned? She frowned at this news. She didn't remember being poisoned, and when he asked her if she did, she shook her head. She remembered snow and being angry. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Yes, there was much snow—Windhelm- and she was angry. At him. Though she couldn't remember why.

She vaguely remembered someone touching her, and on their own volition, her fingers strayed to her throbbing shoulder and gently traced circles around it. There was someone—a woman. Was it a woman? It could have been a man. She tried to picture their face, but each time she did, the person had a different appearance. Sometimes the person morphed into the thief—Francis—other times the Nord Companion—Vimund—and then finally into the Dragonborn—the twat.

"Don't," Isben said, putting his hand on the bed. He didn't dare touch her. She opened an eye to scrutinize him. "Don't rush it," he clarified. "You're already exhausted. Give your mind a rest."

Rest. She'd done enough of that in the past few days. Her muscles were stiff from disuse, and her body felt limp and weak. It was not wise for predators to expose their vulnerabilities, let alone even have vulnerabilities. To do so would quickly reverse the role of predator into prey, and the wolf in her would not allow that. Ignoring his protests, she swung her legs over the bed and used him as a prop. He didn't make it easy, as he tried everything in his power without hurting her to lay her back down on the bed, but she would not have it. She growled and swatted his hands away each time he tried to stop her from standing up. Finally, he gave up, but not without giving her a disapproving yet worried look.

It'd been some time since someone looked at her like that. Her parents often did when she was a child and did not follow their rules, like that one time she and Ivor threw a beehive buzzing with life at Nuel—

Actually, Ivor threw it. She watched and encouraged him, if she recalled correctly.

"Please, Shêzanaré. Your body can't—"

"Walk," she said with a cough. She scrunched her face up at the hoarse sound of her voice. "Need... to walk." He shook his head but complied as he led her to the second floor of the inn where Vimund and Francis sat at the far table. Francis was too busy reading a letter to pay them any mind, but Vimund's eyebrows shot up as he spotted the two of them. He stood from his seat and offered it to Shêza.

"You're awake, Miss Shêzanaré!" he said with a chuckle. He gave her a friendly smile and gave Isben a glance when he walked away from the table. "You had us all worried, aye. We thought the poison had finished you off."

She rested her head on her folded arms and traced the grain of the wooden table with her eyes. For a hunter to be 'finished off' by mere poison was... a disgrace. Her face soured at the thought. She was meant to die either a Hunter's or Nord's death, not by pathetic poison. Ivor would laugh at her if he saw her now.

"You're so entertaining when you sleep, lady," Francis purred from across the table. Shêza glared at him. "You make all these whimpering sounds, and I have to wonder: would you have pawed the air if you could? I'd bet fifty septims that you would."

Her glare intensified when he laughed, and before she could consider leaping across the table to scratch his eyes out, the twat chose that second to return to the table, a cup of—

Her eyes lit up at the sight of the cup of tea he placed in front of her. "Snowberry," he said. "Apparently it's popular in Windhelm. And it's all they had." She hummed and accepted the tea from him, wrapping her hands around the cup and delighting in its soothing warmth.

"How cute," Francis sneered. He yelped when Vimund tipped his chair over. "Oy, Benny. We have to do something about this abuse aimed toward me." He scrambled to his feet and straightened himself out. "But at another time, of course. You see, it's time I take my leave."

Shêza smiled into her cup and took a sip of the tea.

"Oh?" Isben asked, his eyes not straying from the contented look Shêza wore.

Francis nodded. "I received a letter from a courier." He held up his hand, revealing two letters, one with the Riften crest on it, and the other with the Whiterun emblem. Before Isben could ask, he'd stashed the letters away. "My... associates require my immediate presence. It wouldn't be good for me or for them if I dallied."

"Associates?" Vimund asked, crossing his arms. "Just what kind of associates, Francesca?"

"Oh, you know," Francis said, waving a hand in the air, "just the lonely desperate folk of Riften. The ladies are just heartbroken with me," his words faltered a bit, "stolen away."

"We still have to help Vimund with his mission," Isben said.

"Yes, yes, that." Francis twisted his lips and shifted on his feet.

"You don't want to help, do you."

The thief sighed and slouched his shoulders. "Not really, no. Creeping in a cave full of... icky things doesn't really sound appealing."

"Pansy," Vimund grunted. "Girlish milk-drinker." Francis pursed his lips together and tapped his foot.

"That's too bad, Fran," Isben said, shrugging his shoulders. "You know, it's a very old cave. There's probably some treasure and loot in there." Francis blinked and raised his eyebrows at this. "If you really have to leave, we'll split the loot with you and have a courier deliver it to Riften. But you know," Isben said, scratching his chin, "we're bound to miss any treasure chests. We don't have the eye for it. There could be gold, gems, ancient artifacts, maybe a rare vintage or two." Francis licked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest to keep from squirming.

"Or maybe maps to long-lost treasure that could fetch a fortune," Isben continued, still rubbing his chin in thought. "A once in a lifetime opportunity, I'd wager." He stole a glance at Francis, and it was all the Dragonborn could do to keep from smirking when the thief bit his lip and stood up and down on the balls of his feet. "But you have people waiting for you, places to go—it's all understandable. We don't want to land you in any trouble, even if you have light pockets."

Isben placed a hand on Francis's shoulder and started ushering him out of the inn. "So, you'd best be off, now. Don't want to be late and keep your people waiting, no? Dibella watch over you on your travels, and—"

"Hold it right there, Isben Dragonborn." Francis stopped in his tracks and stressed each syllable with a poke to Isben's chest. The thief huffed and poked him again for good measure. "Whoever said I was leaving right now? Are the gods going to let loose another World-eating Dragon if I'm a day late? Are the planes of Oblivion going to merge into one if my people have to wait a little longer? No. Now you just pipe down and get that idea of me leaving right out of your Nordic Bosmeri head, alright?" Francis cracked his knuckles and licked his lips again. "So, when do we leave?"

"As soon as we're all rested, aye," Vimund said.

"No," Shêza said abruptly. She wobbled as she stood up from her chair and growled a warning at Vimund when he reached out to steady her. Several of the other patrons turned their heads toward her. "No," she repeated when Isben's face became stern and disapproving. "We leave now." To idle about for another second would not only be unbearable, but it would be a disgrace to her heritage. Something stirred in her blood, demanded that she move her body and be out on the Hunt once more. Clearing out a cave for those breast-suckling Companions would appease her lycanthropy, if only a little.

Isben sighed when the resolution did not waver in her eyes. "Fine," he said, throwing his hands up. "Fine."

"And that's why they say 'gentleman,'" Francis explained to Vimund as he trotted alongside the burly Nord. Isben and Shêza lagged more than a few paces behind them, the latter having to frequently slow her pace down and take a brief rest. "You see, 'gentleman' used to be two distinct words, but over the centuries, they became slurred together. The phrase was originally 'genital man,' but nowadays we say 'gentleman' or 'gentlemen.'"

"That's a load of mammoth dung, Francesca. Who told you that?" Vimund looked down at the smaller man and guffawed when he sank into the snow.

"A tavern wench," Francis said. Vimund pulled him out of the snow and set him back on the ground. "She was most charming—and intelligent. You don't find wenches like that too often."

"I think she just wanted your coin," Vimund snorted.

Isben helped Shêza over to a rock, and for once, she didn't growl or snap at him when he took hold of her arm. He suspected it was because she was too exhausted to care. He called for Vimund and Francis to stop and did his best to ignore the impatient look Francis wore.

"Take your time," Isben said when Shêza tried standing again. She narrowed her eyes at him, her gaze darting about his face, but she plopped back down on the rock and took a long pull from her canteen. He bit his lip to keep from scolding her; she shouldn't have pushed herself out of bed, she should have stayed in Candlehearth, and she should not have followed them. As if she could read his mind, she bared her teeth at him. It was a poor attempt compared to what her previous growls looked and sounded like.

Francis dug the toe of his boot in the snow, yelping when the snow gave way beneath him. He scrambled to maintain his balance and muttered beneath his breath when Vimund threw his head back in a chortle.

They continued on, the thief and Nord leading the way while the Dragonborn and Shêza inched after them. When the rough terrain and snow opened up into the greens, yellows, and oranges of the crags, crevices and geysers, Francis fell to his knees and kissed the ground. Vimund clicked his tongue and put his boot to the thief's bottom, sending him flying into the White River. When Francis resurfaced and looked to the Dragonborn, the thief slapped his arms against the river and shouted. The Dragonborn was too busy helping the Dragon-Lady along and taking samplings of creep clusters to pay him any mind.

"Here we are," Vimund said once he crossed the river. He rolled his eyes when Francis adjusted his trousers. The thief was mumbling something about 'wet stones' and a 'soggy crotch.' "Cronvangr Cave."

Francis sniffed at the web sacs lining the entrance of the cave. "It's absolutely lovely. Why, I can just tell there will be an abundance of gold here—just after the hoards of spiders, of course."

"Don't tell me four pairs of legs frighten ye off?" Vimund laughed again and slapped the thief on the back. Francis didn't so much as flinch; he was too busy eying the carcass of a mammoth ensnared in webs. "Aye! He's scared."

"I don't like spiders," Francis said. He rubbed his knuckles, and Vimund blinked when the thief's face turned green. "Especially since I am a pugilist. Ew. I have more than half of my mind to leave and go back to Riften. Like three-fourths of my mind. Or better yet, four-fifths."

"This it?" Isben asked as he and Shêza joined them. She had her arm slung around his neck, and though she didn't protest when his arm came around her waist, she frequently eyed his fingers and growled at them. That distraction had her trip and nearly send them both sprawling to the ground.

Vimund shook his head at her, a frown creased in his brow. "Lass, I don't think it'd be wise if you went any further. You could hurt yourself in there." Shêza used Isben as support as she regained her feet, and the Dragonborn frowned when her fingers almost ripped holes in his clothes. "You're not up for this, Miss Shêzanaré," he added when she still looked set on entering Cronvangr. "You're a practical lass. Would it be practical if you went with us and put your life at risk?"

Isben held his breath, praying to all gods that she would listen to Vimund. After moments of tension between the three of them—Francis still stared at the mammoth, his face twitching and expression continuing to sour—Shêza sighed and hung her head. He was right, she knew he was, and what was more, the wolf inside knew, too. It stirred, annoyed that she was giving in, but satisfied that she wasn't about to throw her life away.

With a huff, she took a seat on a rock just outside the cave. Isben slouched his shoulders and stared at the sky, his lips mouthing silent words of thanks.

"Aye," Vimund said. He nodded at Shêza and hefted his axe. "We'll be quick as we can, miss. Until we return, stay clear of trouble and—" When Shêza shot him a glower that could have stopped a Daedric Prince in their tracks, Vimund cleared his throat and waved Isben and Francis to follow him. Isben gave her a small smile before hurrying into the cave after his companions.

Shêza sighed and slouched in her seat. She pulled out her canteen and took another gulp of water. Her spirits dampened and her shoulders hunched when she drank the last drop, and it was instinct for her to whine. It was also instinct to chuck the canteen as far as she could. She growled when the blasted thing landed right on the dead mammoth, and instead of standing up to retrieve it, she growled louder.

Being outside and away from the confining walls of Windhelm, she knew why her lycanthropy had such a strong hold on her—knew why her gums kept splitting, knew why her heart ached, knew why her nails wanted to morph into claws. Just a few whiffs of the air told her why; Secunda would be its brightest and fullest that night, and to ignore Hircine's curse would be impossible.

Still, she couldn't understand why the swine wasn't as affected as she was. He must have felt the same pull she did. He told her before that he had ways of dealing with his lycanthropy, but certainly those ways couldn't have made him immune to Secunda's calling?

Brushing aside the thief's problems, she kicked a loose pebble and sighed. Sitting down felt better than standing up at the moment, and it would take a great deal to dislodge her from her rocky throne.

Or so she thought.

There was something faint on the wind, but her ears picked it up. She frowned and angled her head, her brows nearly becoming one when she recognized the sounds. Mammoth, she thought. She knew those beastly roars and bellows mammoths would make—she hunted them, after all, and knew more than a thing or two about an enraged mammoth.

And this mammoth, wherever it was, was infuriated.

She settled down, ignoring the mammoth's continuous bellows. Some fool out there was probably trying to kill it or one of its herd, and it was none of her business if—

Her eyes shot open when she heard another sound, one that made her blood run cold. She'd know those sounds anywhere, as she grew up with them. To anyone without the lycanthropy, it would just sound like a scraggly wolf howling its head off, but she knew better. Werewolf.

She hoisted herself up and climbed through the rocky slopes surrounding Cronvangr. She stood on the tips of her toes and sniffed the air, her ears ringing when she heard more howls. Pinpointing the werewolf's location, she hobbled through the geysers and pools of water, occasionally tripping over a creep cluster. Judging by their scent, it was no one she knew—thank Hircine—but her curiosity had the better of her. She remembered that when she was at the Eldergleam Sanctuary, she smelled marked territory of werewolves. Now that she was about to see them in person, she couldn't help but to feel like a thief stumbling upon a mountain of gold.

She saw the mammoth before she saw the werewolf. The mammoth was raging, charging at the rocks and through the geysers, indifferent to the steaming heat and uneven terrain. It bellowed, raising its great tusks and bringing them down. When Shêza darted up another slope to have a better look, she saw the werewolf.

It was male, she decided, when she sized its bulk and fur up. Male and stupid, just like all of them. It obviously wasn't a seasoned mammoth-hunter—there was no way in all of the Planes that this male knew what it was doing, if those gashes and punctures in its flesh held any merit. She could watch the mammoth pummel the idiot werewolf to a pulp if she wanted to. She'd be watching for a long while, as the werewolf was forced on the defense and constantly ducked to avoid those sharp tusks and stomping feet. Leap on its back, you dumb animal.

Learning lessons was important when being a werewolf; the life of a lycanthrope was about life and death, the fit and the weak. This numbskull werewolf was learning quite the lesson.

Or, she could empathize with the werewolf and offer it her assistance. She remembered when she first hunted a mammoth. Ivor was with her, as it was his first time, too. He ended up with a broken collarbone, dislocated shoulder, and snapped knee, while she, on the other hand, went by unscathed and dealt the finishing slice to the mammoth, thereby marking it as her kill. Ivor had brooded for over a month while recovering, refusing to allow anyone in his chambers save for Petra.

Her decision was made for her when the mammoth suddenly caught sight of her while swinging its great head at the werewolf. The mammoth's eyes bulged with rage when it saw her, and without any warning, it charged at her. She stood her ground, waiting until the mammoth had gained enough momentum before springing out of the way. She hissed when she landed on her feet; her muscles locked and bones creaked. Shaking her head, she spat and focused on the mammoth. It was turning around, readying itself for another charge.

She dodged again, narrowly missing its tusks. The other werewolf howled and tried to flank the monstrous beast, but the edge of its tusk caught its shoulder. The werewolf shrieked, the pain making its claws miss the mammoth's flesh by more than a few inches. Shêza huffed and rolled out of the way when the mammoth tried trampling her. She put distance between herself and the mammoth, relying on the idiot wolf to distract it for her.

At least it's good at something, the whelp. Rolling her eyes at the werewolf when it tried to land another blow on the mammoth, she hunched her back and let the beastblood flood her body, allowing the lycanthropy to morph her Nordic body into a werewolf's. The relief was better than the purest water, more satisfying than those 'pleasure heights' the thief mentioned in his tales of conquest. She howled, singing with joy at the feeling of release when she was fully changed. Her body trembling with anticipation, she leapt after the mammoth. It rammed its tusks again, and when she jumped out of their range, she collided with the other werewolf.

They landed in a tangle of limbs, the male howling and trying to regain his feet while Shêza hissed and smacked him with the palm of her hand. Once she was freed, she came dangerously close to being introduced to those tusks face-first, and she cursed the idiot male to Oblivion and back. Tired of being on the defense, she charged the mammoth before it could recover and stampede toward them again, and latched her claws into its side as leverage. Its hind feet almost crushed her, but she managed to cling to its side before the mammoth realized what she was doing. It bellowed again, its snout curling high in the air, and thrashed its head back and forth, trying to dislodge her.

She would not have it—not when she could smell victory close at hand. She climbed onto its back, digging her claws in its flesh to steady herself, and bit into its hide, ripping out chunks of meat and fur.

Lycanthropy was dangerous, and not only for villagers and animals, but for the lycanthrope themselves. The feeling of power could consume a werewolf, drive it to the brink of bloodlust and beyond, and turn it into a mindless beast that hunted for sheer thrills and the taste of blood. Loners usually ended up with that fate, but Shêza was no loner.

As for the other werewolf, she didn't know. But when it decided to help her kill the mammoth, she knew the werewolf was a complete beslubbering, boil-brained, milk-livered, toad-spotted, ill-breeding, clapper-clawed wagtail.

Its attempts to help her failed. Instead, the mammoth's tusk caught it again, this time on the side of its head. Just from the impact of the blow, the werewolf went soaring away from Shêza and her mammoth and into one of the pools surrounding them. Shêza growled and ripped out more of the mammoth's flesh with new vigor, and soon, she had put the beast down. It was a messy kill; her fur was stained and her claws were full of squelchy tissue and skin. She flapped her tongue when she felt mammoth fur stick to the roof of her mouth.

A whine drew her attention away from her problems to the other werewolf. She moved on all fours to the pool, sniffing around the water. It definitely landed in this particular pool, as the water was bloodied, but where did—

Ah. There you are. Wagtail.

It had tried to run off, but hadn't gotten very far. She trotted over to it, sniffing its limp and curled up body. After nudging it with her snout, she deemed it to be unconscious. She whined and poked its cheek with her nose, then growled. She couldn't just leave it here—anything could happen to him. Where there was one mammoth, there were sure to be more, and with mammoths came giants. That, and for a werewolf to be out in the open in broad daylight was unwise. There was more than a handful of people in Skyrim who hunted her kind.

The fur started receding from its body. She rolled him onto his back, knowing that position would put less strain on his morphing muscles and bones. Its limbs snapped and shrank out of their lycanthrope shapes, and soon enough, Shêza was not looking at a wolf, but at a man.

A man that must have been the most appealing male in all of Skyrim.

A/N continued:

So, what's all this talk about Shêza and Isben being a thing? Hmmmmmmm? I don't see it. ;)

And the mammoth scene was inspired by one of my Skyrim adventures. I was riding Shadowmere through the geysers near the Eldergleam Sanctuary and Bonestrewn Crest, and a mammoth suddenly spawned right on top of me (I hate it when they do that, or when they fall out of the sky randomly). Shadowmere can only run so fast when a mammoth charges him D;

And lemme clear a couple of things up. When Shêza refers to Isben as a 'twat,' she is not calling him a vagina. That's the slang definition of the word. The other definition is a 'foolish and despicable person,' and this is the definition that should be associated with the word whenever she uses it. As for 'wagtail,' wagtail is a type of bird. I just liked how it sounded, considering we were talking about werewolves. Wagtail.