Here we are, as promised.

I have to admit I'm really enjoying writing these last couple of chapters, and I feel it's only getting better.

The next chapter is already going quite well, so I feel I'll be able to get it out in two weeks no problem
(Friday - )
But life might catch up, as it sometimes does, so if I haven't released it in two weeks, just wait a bit longer.

That said, enjoy!

Warrior Imprisoned

My eyes widened in surprise as I gazed down into the bag of provisions Tilma had prepared moments before we left. She proudly carried the nickname ¨Hag¨ for her usual demeanor, yet every now and then she'd remind us all of the reason she also carried her second nickname, ¨The Mother of Jorrvaskr,¨ for the content of her bag held nothing but a mother's care. And as I, with enthusiasm, pulled out the two bottles of Black-Briar Reserve, I couldn't help but to feel warmly charmed.

As a regular visitor to Riften, getting my hands on Black-Briar mead was never a problem. But there was more than one reason I never could get my hands on their Reserve. It was rare. Sold and exported only to the jarls and nobles of Skyrim.

Renowned as our Harbinger was, he still didn't make Maven's cut as a possible buyer of her more jeweled wares. It wasn't his reputation that failed him, it was a far more primitive reason than that.

The Companions were poor.

We mostly hunted our own food and not to mention how we with damn near daring desperation accepted every Septim-offering contract we got. Even so, most of our earnings went to travel and lodging, as well as Eorlund's expenses for his Skyforge steel. Even with our Companion discount, it was near heavenly high. Luxury items were simply something we couldn't afford, which Vilkas far too many times reminded me of.

The Reserve was my favorite beverage so far. I only had the luxury of opening a bottle once before, offered as payment by the Priestess of Arkay in Riften, for bringing her ceremonial dagger to her father's final resting place in Whiterun. It had been more of a favor than a contract, accepted by chance as we happened to discuss the subject one stormy evening in the Bee and Barb.

The dark blue, almost black, liquid had seemed off-putting at first as I filled my goblet to the brim, but when its deep scent reached my nostrils it had almost entranced me with curiosity for its complex aromas. The smooth honey-sweetened touch against my tongue had quickly darkened with the deep notes only blackberries could provide. As I consumed the dark liquid, a distinct aftertaste, hinting of snowberries and a mixture of spices, warmed its way down my throat to find its rest in the depths of my belly. Its warm profoundness lingered for minutes to come, truly a drink only appreciated to its fullest when savored.

I had no idea how Tilma had managed to get her hands on a bottle, much less two, but I knew it couldn't have been easy. Living in Whiterun, where Honeybrew mead was the very definition of loyalty, it was already a challenge to get one's hands on Black-Briar Mead, not to mention their Reserve. Whatever strings Tilma had pulled, she had pulled hard.

Greed and gluttony struck me as I discreetly placed the two bottles behind my boot as to not let Aela see. Luckily she was clearly too busy to take notice as she worked something in her old wooden mortar, as she sat on an old fallen tree.

"What's that you're doing?" I asked as I emptied the rest of Tilma's bag before me: dried meat, bread and cheese.

"Paint…" Aela barely took her eyes off the mortar as she answered.

"Paint?" Using my dagger, I sliced the cheese and bread to make sandwiches. "For what?"

"Just a tradition my father taught me." Aela gave me a look as she spoke. "Before we went hunting he always made some paint. For camouflage he said, but it always felt like more of a tradition... or ritual even."

"You've never spoken of your father before." I handed Aela a sandwich before preparing another for myself.

"Not much to say." Aela took a bite before continuing, "I stayed with my father in the woods until I was old enough for my Trial. We hunted everything there was to hunt… Good training."

"Your Trial? You mean…"

"Yes," Aela interrupted, "I've been moonborn since the day I first entered Jorrvaskr."

I hadn't known that, I thought as I chewed on dried meat. Vilkas and Farkas had both been turned at a young age, but Aela must have been even younger than them.

"Vilkas mentioned your mother was a Companion as well," I returned my eyes on her as I spoke. "She's the one who turned you?"

"My mother was a Companion. And her mother. And all the women in my family back to Hrotti Blackblade." Aela took a short pause before continuing. "But no… Ma didn't live long enough to see me join, but I fight to honor her and all my Shield-Sisters through time." With that said she returned to her mortar and worked her pestle with more intensity than before.

She didn't seem upset by the subject our conversation had taken, but perhaps a bit evasive to continue on the details. Typical of Aela, whenever she didn't want to speak on something, she would simply stop. But then again most Companions were like that: Speaking with actions rather than words.

A moment of silence passed as I continued to eat, the moment almost bordering on awkwardness. Almost beginning to feel uncomfortable I broke the silence. "I used to hunt with my father too before I joined, and my brother."

"Heard about your brother," Aela instantly said, turning towards me, as if there never had been a silence to begin with. "Perhaps we're not so different, you and I… Hand me one of those bottles, will you?"

With a faint look of ignorance, I stared at her outstretched hand. Crap… She had noticed. Reluctantly I handed her one of the bottles of Black-Briar Reserve and opened the second one for myself. I knew it would, after all, be impolite not to share. Yet I had hoped to save them both for later and, more importantly, for myself.

The aroma and taste was even more intense than I remembered. I didn't have enhanced senses the last time I drank it, which clearly showed as the sweet yet spicy dark liquid proudly gloated on my enhanced sense of taste. Feelings of fulfillment and joy spread throughout my body, only to abruptly turn to horror as I saw Aela nonchalantly pour the content of her bottle into her mortar mixture.

"That'll do," Aela said as she mashed the mixture with her pestle into a dark, muddy mush.

She downed the rest of her bottle as I stared in horror with wide eyes at how casually she treated such a treasure of glorified liquid. She didn't savor the drink in any way. I should never have taken the bottles out of the bag…

Casually, she tossed the bottle aside. The rest of its content flowing into the snow covered ground as the bottle softly rolled to a halt, leaving a trail of dark blue in its path. She dipped three of her fingers in the mixture and drew them diagonally across her face, leaving behind three stripes of dark umbra blue. She gave me an odd look as I stared at her, bottle against my lips as if I had been dumbstruck, before reaching the mortar towards me.

"This might cover up that dumb look of yours…"

A pounding headache tortured Skjor as he became aware of the cold, wet stone floor beneath him. Unsteady hands slowly pushed against the cold floor as he, in dazed befuddlement, rose to his feet. The ¨shard of glass¨ inside his knee forced him to fall to his side. Luckily, a wall hindered his descent and he remained standing, leaning against the cold stone wall. Even before his senses fully returned to him, Skjor realized his armor had been stripped along with his weapons and bag. The wolf fursuit he wore did little against the cold now that it was soaked all the way through by the more than damp floor he had awakened on.

Skjor slowly slid his back down the wall to the floor. Ears still ringing as he breathed with an open mouth, trying to focus his blurred vision on his surroundings. The Silver Hands had clearly continued beating and kicking him after he lost consciousness earlier, for his entire body ached as if he had been trampled by a horse. Skjor wouldn't be surprised if more than a few of his bones were broken.

Skjor slowly rubbed his eyes and his knee, aching worse than ever before. Had his left eye not already been blind, the swelling from his beating surely would have made it so. His breathing was slow and deep as he tried to regain his focus. A bloody palm appeared before his vision as he stopped rubbing his eyes, clearly his head was still bleeding.

"Haven't healed yet…" Skjor mumbled to himself. "Can't have been more than a couple of hours."

A deep inhale as he leaned his head back against the cold wall, feeling drips of water run down his neck as he began looking around.

The room smelled of mold, moss, old wood and water, dripping down the walls, and the horrid smelling liquid beneath him a mixture of water, feces, and piss. It was clearly a cell. Barely large enough for two people. Ceiling, walls and floor all made of stone. Barred opening to his left, facing another stone wall. Must be the basement of their fort.

Tilting his head, Skjor tried to listen for any sounds, but his headache still rang loud with a high pitch of pain in his ears. If there were any hints of sounds around him, they easily evaded his dulled hearing. Again Skjor tried to rise. If his hearing decided to fail him, he'd have to use his eyes. Slowly he worked his way up, hands climbing against the wall, and once up, he continued to limp towards the iron bars.

Cold rusted iron met the skin of his palms as he gripped the bars. They were too close to one another for him to squeeze his head through, yet he could make out parts of the hallway to both sides.

The hallway was dark, except for a few lit candles placed here and there atop wooden shelves mounted along the hallway walls. They seemed to have been burning for a while as most of them had long molten flows of red wax dripping down their sides.

A slight scent of cooking drifted down the hallway... Must be a kitchen nearby. That meant people. Or at least one.

Skjor reached his hand between the bars. The lock was, like the bars, old and rusty yet strong enough that he wouldn't be able to break it. Perhaps if he had still had his sword. Or even his dagger. But with nothing but his hands the lock would stay shut no matter his efforts to twist and bend it.

"Hey! Stop that!"

Skjor let go of the lock and turned his head towards the direction of the voice.

A man came walking down the corridor to his left, the same way the smell of a kitchen came from. Not a man, a boy. He looked young. The black-haired boy wore simple clothing, leather and fur, rather than armor. He didn't look like a warrior. Perhaps he was their cook, or on a break and hadn't donned his armor. He wasn't one of the men that had attacked him earlier.

"Awake huh," the boy said as he stopped in front of Skjor.

With a stern look, Skjor eyed the boy on the other side of the bars. He looked about Ria's age. Was he one of the newer recruits the Silver Hand had been so busy gathering? Or had he perhaps grown up with the Silver Hand, like Vilkas and Farkas with the Companions. No. Had he grown up with them he'd be better built. Except for the look in his eyes, this boy didn't seem like a warrior at all.

"First time I get to see a wolf who's… well, not a wolf," the boy started as he in return studied Skjor with his eyes.

"What do you mean?" Skjor asked between pain clenched teeth. Not that he didn't know what the boy meant, but starting a dialogue might cause the boy to give away some information. Being behind bars, information gathering was one of the few useful things Skjor could do.

"All the others they bring in are beasts. Not human, like you. In form, I mean"

"Since when did The Silver Hand stop killing werewolves on sight?"

"Since that new chief showed up… Says she wants them alive. Made things a lot harder for us, but you wolves are quick to charge into traps." A slight smile played on his lips as he spoke. "Who did you think gave you the information for our camp? But to think you'd be dumb enough to come alone! We expected at least two of you. With your Shield Sibling tradition and whatnot. But here you are… all alone."

A loose tongue bragger, huh? Good. Clearly they weren't aware of Aela and the New-Blood yet. At least that was a relief. That meant the battle wasn't yet lost. But from behind bars there was little Skjor could do to aid them. Still, there was one fact Skjor couldn't figure out, why they wanted him alive?

"You should have gone in for the kill when you had me surrounded. Might have saved you some men. Why didn't you?" Skjor poked.

A darkness spread over the boy's face at Skjor's comment. "Like I said. Krev wants you alive."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Shrugging his shoulders the boy's expression turned from darkened anger to faltering comprehension as his eyes seemed to search the air for an answer. "I'm not allowed in that part of her dungeon. But not for any good reason I think. They're kind of secretive of what goes on over there. I've only heard some rumors but… She's not normal."

The boy spoke more than Skjor had hoped for. The naivety of youth. How desperately they wanted to be heard, most of all the ones who rarely got to speak. Still, like most of the naive, the boy seemed to know little of what was truly going around here. He couldn't be one of importance. Skjor adjusted his lean against the bars before continuing their conversation, as his knee demanded movement.

"What do you mean?"

"I…" The boy's expression turned almost uncomfortable before he continued. "I don't know. It's just… The old leader wasn't as scary. And he was more, honorbound? I guess. But Krev… I think she just likes to see you suffer. Werewolves, I mean."

"Why do you think that?"

"I don't know…" The boy squirmed uncomfortably for a moment before leaning in closer. Lowering his voice, he whispered, "But they call her ¨The Skinner¨."