Like always, nothing is mine except original characters.
Like the trip to Veta's cabin, I can't remember much of the journey to my home, not until I was weaving between the pine trees, walking down my guar-trail, and when my little cabin came into sight, my heart lifted. I would have ran down the path, but it felt as though molten lead flowed through my veins, and the best I could manage was a slight quickening of my pace.
A touch and a murmured word unlocked the door, and I slid in with a long sigh, glad to lock the door behind me. I paused in the main room of my cabin, tempted to collapse in the hammock strung between the two walls of a corner, used for the few guests I got. Of course, if I did that, odds were good that I wouldn't get up for a week. And I was hungry.
I rooted through a sack near the door leading back into my bedroom, and settled for a stalk of saltrice, promising myself a proper meal later. Chomping on the sweet plant, I hesitated, then sighed and pulled out the bottle of flin I'd just bought, taking a swig of the alcohol to wash down the slightly gritty texture of the saltrice.
Pleasant warmth spread from my belly out to my skin, and I sighed, wishing for a moment that I had sprung for the Cyrodiilic brandy. Then I shook my head at my own folly, took another mouthful of the whisky, capped it, and wandered off to bed. I was asleep before my head touched the soft pillow.
Like many of my kind, I dreamed of chasing a moon as red as blood over hills and through forests, all of my species-kin running beside me, howling both the Chase and the Hunt. The landscape seemed to blur below our paws, unimportant as we loped through the perfect hunting grounds for the perfect hunt; we ran for the joy of running, the moon always before us. Though we knew we would never be able to catch it, we sought it, and in the search, found hope and peace, and welcome among our species.
Loud pounding on my door woke me from my dream, and I lifted my head from my down pillow as a familiar voice called out, "Tiama? Are you in there?" Why on, above, or under the earth is Roc here? Curiosity driving me, I stretched like a waking wolf, and then gathered my blanket around my shoulders, as I had yet to retrieve my clothing from the flat rock outside. As I walked out of my bedroom and to the door, I glanced out my windows, grinning ruefully to myself when I saw that I had drawn the curtains and shutters closed, as I always did before I went out roving for the night. I pulled open the door, and my smile vanished.
Roc stood on my threshold, fiddling with a silver sword, nervous. But behind him, most of the colonists who I had lead to the necromancer formed a grim wall of flesh, the glitter of silver weapons flashing in the late afternoon sun. My heart froze solid. That little...! He told them! I scanned their faces, noting that though they were as tired as I was, they had a firm grip on their weapons, their eyes jaded, hardened in preparation...I shoved the thought out of my mind, trying not to think about it. Instead I turned to Roc and nodded, arching a brow, asking him without words what they were doing here.
He took a deep breath and blurted out, "Mistress Veta's son was taken from a battle with a necromancer by a werewolf. We tracked it back to her cabin, and astonishingly enough, found Hethan safe and sound. But...the tracks didn't end there, even though they changed from wolf to...normal. We followed them back here."
He fell silent, eyes downcast, and when he looked back up at me, his eyes were begging me to deny it, to have a reasonable explanation. My grip tightened on the doorframe, but I said nothing. Careless! The one time I didn't come home by the stream... Roc cleared his throat, and mumbled, "We...we're going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Taima. But we still need to have a Silver Trial. If nothing happens, you will have a full apology from all of us..."
My blood ran cold. A Silver Trial was used when a person was suspected of being a werewolf, but there was no evidence against them. Just before nine at night, a jury of up to twenty wielding silver weapons surrounded the person in question. If the accused changed, proving their guilt, they were killed by silver. I didn't know what happened if they were innocent, but it didn't matter. In this case, I was guilty, and I would die. And there was nothing I could do to change that fact.
I realized that Roc was still speaking, and forced myself to pay attention, "Taima, I beseech you; if you are guilty, confess now, and I'll make sure your death is painless."
As fast as my blood had turned to ice, it heated faster, a snarl twisting my lips. "I confess to nothing!" I growled, turning my back on the clearing, slamming the door behind me. Then I leaned against it, breathing hard, a tear springing to my eye despite my anger.
I had just as good as admitted to being a werewolf with those actions. And even if by some miracle I didn't change this night, I was still doomed; they'd never trust me again. They'd 'convince' me to move into the colony, and I'd be surrounded by normal people day and night, people who could never understand the dream of the moon of blood. The pack...I thought desperately, then brushed the thought aside. There was no way I could get a message to them, seeing as they were scattered all over the island, and even if I could, what could they do? Kill or drive off the jury before I changed? Then what? I'd still be vulnerable here; the colonists would just come another night, and I wouldn't get lucky again.
I straightened, chin tilting up, fists clenching. I might die tonight, but I'd take a few down with me. They wouldn't find it easy to kill this werewolf! I had about six hours until they came for me. That was enough time to rest and gather my strength, and to prepare for the second battle less than a day. I would not submit, bearing my throat for an easy death. I would die fighting them. And after I died, my species-kin would sing of my valor and my courage for generations.
The knowledge of that did little to comfort me those long hours before night fell, and I spent much of my time pacing up and down my small cabin, mulling over the mysteries of life and of my own species. I found few answers, but it didn't really matter; no one would hear my theories anyways.
I suppose I'm the only werewolf philosopher...or does everyone think about these things at some point in time or another? I guess I'll never know. Oh, Ranger, Flyer, Thunder! If only I could say good-bye, my big brave males. White-heart, Ebony, Firebrand, my female friends...I wish I could have told you three how much you meant to me. Without your support, especially that first year, I never would have survived. I will miss you, and all the pack, without exception. Hircine bless your hunt forever.
I took a deep breath, and then released it. The shadows caused by the thin ray of sun that wiggled under the shutters had grown long with the onset of night, then vanished as dusk fell. It was time.
My legs and hands where steady as I stood, opened the door, and walked outside. The jury had assembled in the closest thing to a clearing near my cabin, a place where the trees were a little farther apart than normal. They had already formed the circle, weapons drawn in preparation for the Silver Trial. Four torches were mounted on tall poles to give light to the darkness of the forest at night, but beyond their circular glow, I could see nothing but shadows, just like always.
For a moment, I wanted to bolt for those shadows and dive into a bush of some kind until the change passed...but they'd already seen me, and I would not take the coward's way out. My back was straight as I crossed to them, entering into their circle. The flickering lights of the fire didn't bother me, but the play of light over silver did; I had spent far too much time as a wolf not to know what silver did to the flesh of a werewolf.
It was the only poison we were susceptible to, even though by the strictest technicality, it wasn't a poison. But it acted like one when a silver weapon pierced our skin, be it arrow or sword or axe. Those wounds were always slow to heal, and prone to infection, but if they were 'clean'—that is, if the silver weapon was removed from the wound—they would heal...my species was renowned for having incredible healing powers, and it was possible that even the most serious wound done to a werewolf would heal...barring a direct thrust to the heart, of course.
Of course, I wouldn't ever get a chance to demonstrate those incredible healing abilities ever again. I could guess what would happen when I began to change; those mages standing in an arc would try to paralyze or burden me so that I'd be an easier target, then the archers standing in their arc would fire several arrows into me, and then the rest of the circle with hand-weapons would close in and...I stopped my thoughts right there, not wanting to depress myself any further. Instead, I looked around the circle, turning to see them all.
Now, who's the weakest link: the mages, the archers, or the others? I scratched out those wielding swords and other hand-weapons, biting my lip as I considered archers verses mages. If I got close to the archers, neither they or the mages would be able to use ranged attacks for risk of hitting their comrades, but a quote niggled at the back of my mind: "When in doubt, kill the wizard." And besides, if I got close enough to the mages and they decided to risk using magicka, then there was a good change they'd hit one of the other mages. Alright, mages it is...that High Elf looks pretty weak in the physical aspect of it; I should be able to overpower him. From there...A dozen plans leapt into my mind, and though I knew that I'd never be able to escape, I sorted through them, picking the one that would let me survive the longest and kill the most. Perhaps it was the wolf in me that wanted to kill so many this night, or perhaps it was my own nature that wanted to die fighting...
I felt my breath catch in my lungs, the prickling of hair along my arms and neck alerting me to what I had already guessed; the hour was at hand. I tipped my head back, and saw in the star-studded sky but one moon: the one that was deep red in color. The blood moon. Fitting...I mused as soft black fur raced down my neck, my arms, my torso. From all around me, I heard gasps of shock and soft cries of outrage. A stone soared over my head, thrown by some outraged colonist...no, wait...
"Leave her alone! She saved my life!" Hethan's clear young tenor cut across the demi-clearing as more and more stones were thrown. The solid sound of stone against flesh soon filled the air, most of the circle breaking as men and mer alike cried in surprise and pain, clutching at various parts of their anatomy. I admired his aim for one moment, noting that the rocks were hitting their targets almost without exception, then I shook my head to myself and put all my energies into making the important changes as fast as possible—claws, muzzle, legs—while the jury was distracted by the infuriated child.
Roc strode out of his place at the apex, his armor protecting him from the blows, frowning as he approached the Breton child. The big Nord grabbed Hethan by the upper arms, bodily lifting him up off the ground to look into his eyes, "Look, Hethan, we have to kill it; it's dangerous, a threat to the colony, bloodthirsty..." He gave an inarticulate cry of pain as Hethan kicked him where males don't like to be kicked, doubling over. Hethan wiggled free, sparks flying from him in his anger. He backed off, gathering another handful of stones. Those in the circle did their best to back away or dodge these; now the stones had curious blue sparks flicking over their surface, and no one wanted to find out what magic the child had managed to do.
And through this all, I was forcing the change, gritting my teeth at the sharp jolts of pain from the speed of things. I was almost finished when an archer noticed me and gave a sharp cry, loosing an arrow. I was lucky; one of Hethan's stones had just hit him, and the arrow—no doubt aimed for my heart—slammed into my shoulder. I whimpered in spite of myself, and used one claw to break off the arrow close to my skin, so that it wouldn't hamper me later. Then I leaped for the archers even as I finished the last of the changes, seeing that the mages were too busy trying to counter and calm Hethan to be much of a problem. Startled, only one managed to hit me with another arrow, this one deep into my flank. Then my proximity forced them to put their bows away and fumble for other weapons. For a wild moment as they hurried to change weapons, I got in a few powerful blows; including one that I'm sure killed an archer where he stood...
But then a silver axe bit into my side, skittering across my ribs, most of the blow deflected...but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt. Even as I cried out in pain I turned, lunging at the Redguard behind me, who had wielded the axe. He stepped back, causing me to stumble, leaving myself open for attack as I tried to recover. I heard him raise his axe up high to behead me, then scream with shock and pain. The loss of blood and the presence of silver in the wounds was making me dizzy; I could swear that I heard the snarls of my species-kin, but that was impossible...
I looked up, and saw that the impossible was. The circle of colonists had been hit from the outside, from the shadowy forest, by three wedges of werewolves, forcing the humans and elves to split into several groups. Very few of the jury were paying attention to me now, most concerned with the new intruders.
"For Hircine's sake, Shadow, don't just stand there! Run!" The werewolf who'd killed the Redguard yelled, and I blinked when I recognized Firebrand, a russet whose fur was tinged with gold and whose temper was infamous.
"What...?"
"Stars and moons, that axe must have hit you harder than I thought," a werewolf on my other side growled as she fought off an archer with a short sword, her blue-black fur as unusual as my own. Ebony? How...?
Firebrand grunted deep in her throat, and slammed into my good shoulder, forcing me to all fours, "I don't care, we'll deal with that later! Shadow, run! White-heart's waiting just beyond the hills to help you to the Gathering Place. Move!" Turning from me, she barked an order to her wedge, and they wheeled about, driving the colonists before them like guar...away from me, clearing a path that led into the forest proper.
I tried to trot, and was rewarded with three hot brands of fire and pain laid across my shoulder, my flank, and my side, where silver had wounded me. Black and sun-white sparks whirled and competed for dominance in my sight, and I knew I swayed on my feet even as I stumbled up the hill, wanting so much to black out once and for all...but to do so here and now, in the midst of battle, would be suicide, and so I clamped down on the pain, forcing myself to focus until my gaze cleared. By that time, I had slid into the pine trees around my house, out of sight of the battle.
"That's right, Shadow," a soft, clear voice murmured close to my ear, "This way, north to the Gathering Place." I blinked hard, and could just see the outline of a black werewolf against the black forest, her only marking a circle of white on the left side of her chest, over her heart. Three black werewolves; Ebony, White-heart, and me...The delirious thought trailed across my mind as I stumbled again, pain clouding my vision.
Soft warmth eased up against my wounded shoulder, and White-heart murmured, "Easy, Shadow, easy. Lean on me." I felt rather than saw her gaze sweep across me, evaluating my wounds, and a groan was ripped from my throat as she twined two claws around the arrow still stuck in my flank. "It has to come out, Shadow. Just relax, it'll feel a lot better when..." she yanked the silver arrow, hard, ripping it out of my flesh, "it's out," she finished needlessly, tossing the arrow away. Even as I continued to move north she dipped her head, cleaning my wounds with long, gentle sweeps of her tongue. "It's going to be all right, Shadow. They'll never find you in the Gathering Place, even if they did have the inclination to look for you...which they won't. Not when the pack gets done with them."
"How...?" I gasped, limping on my bad leg, my shoulder still afire with the silver arrowhead embedded in it.
"Ranger," White-heart said simply, helping me over a log, "He was coming to check on you, to let you know that everyone got away safely, and saw the colonists gathered around your door..." She shrugged, "He didn't hear much, but he heard enough, and so ran and got Thunder. Thunder rallied some of the pack to him; told them to spread the word to all the other werewolves, and to have everyone meet him in your forest just before eight tonight. They cobbled together a rough plan, and, well....you know the rest."
I nodded, gritting my teeth to keep from screaming in pain each step I took. Dark crimson blood dripped from my wounds, no doubt marking our trail for anyone to follow, but I found that I couldn't summon up the energy to care. I let White-heart guide me, my eyes almost slitted shut as I focused on taking the next step, and then the next, all the way to the Gathering Place. Unlike my earlier journeys, I remembered every step of that one, every pulse of fire when something rubbed up against my side or my leg, every drop of blood that oozed out onto my fur or onto the ground, every time White-heart dropped her head to lick my wounds, even most of the soothing words she muttered, encouraging me along.
It was early morning when I stumbled under the two boulders forming the entrance into our Gathering Place, hardly conscious of my surroundings. White-heart nudged my neck with her muzzle, guiding me over to the base of one of the guardian mountains. She reached forward, gripping a notch cut into the side of the mountain, and heaved outward. A narrow passage opened, and she nodded, coaxing me into the blackness of the cavern.
Inside, there was wasn't enough light to see where I was placing my claws, but from what I could feel, it was a small cave, barely big enough to stretch full out in, with a low ceiling. "This place is sometimes used when a werewolf is too ill or too hurt to move far..." White-heart murmured even as she helped me to my knees, and then to stretch out on the smooth, cool rock floor. "You just rest now; I'll be outside keeping guard if you need anything..." At last, the strain of my wounds proved too much, and White-heart's form and words faded as darkness overtook my senses.
Thanks to Falcira, Crazy Elf Paladin, SilverSunflower, and Daystorm Mage, who reviewed! Keep up the good feedback, I encourage constructive criticism.