Last Time: Xander and Dulurza took out the Caller, L'laarzen received a call from Maven Black-Briar, and Hjar revealed the beast inside.

Partying and Partying

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"Cheers!"

"Cheers!"

Alexander and Dulurza clanged their tankards together and drank. The Honningbrew meadery was busy enough to be comfortable but no so busy as to be crowded. Off by the counter the owner was drinking amicably with the head of Whiterun's guards, but the two recently returned adventurers had picked a table further to the back of the building and couldn't hear what was being said.

"To a successful mission!" Dulurza toasted.

"To friendships made!" Xander echoed.

"To an enchanted set of armour!"

"To as many black mage robes as I can cram in my bag! All of which will be worth so much money once I sew up the holes and clean off the blood!"

Dulurza raised an eyebrow. "You know how to sew?"

"Course I do! I'm from Cyrodil high society it's an essential skill." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all, it's a great skill to have."

"Thanks."

"...For the Chief's wives."

"Oi!"

They both laughed good naturedly, and drank some more.

"Oh, right, don't let me forget." Xander reached down to his belt and pulled out Dulurza's dagger. "Here. You told me you wanted it back."

She looked at it for a moment, then waved him off. "No, keep it. You earned it, and you damn well need it. Besides, I can make another one, and you're still enchanting me that necklace."

"You sure you want it done to the one we scrounged off the Caller's body?"

"Obviously. That makes it a trophy."

"You know, we could make a business out of this. You craft stuff, I enchant it, we sell it for buckets of septims."

"Maybe, but I'm not much bothered by coin, and I'm not settling down at a forge this young."

"I still can't get over the fact that you're nineteen." Xander chuckled, sipping at his drink. He heard some crashing noises from down in the cellar, but dismissed it as a clumsy assistant or something. "You know, I've got to do something similar to this down in Falkreath. If you're interested..."

"Thanks, but no." Dulurza declined. "I need to return to Solitude. And while I admit you are not quite the honourless weakling mage I took you for..."

"Thanks?"

"...You do seem to cause trouble everywhere you go."

Xander put a hand on his breast. "Me? A trouble magnet? My dear Orsimer, I have no idea what-"

The door to the cellar slammed open, and a startled Khajit woman made an impressive leap up the stairs to roll across the duo's table (narrowly missing both drinks) and landing on the floor on the other side. Following her up the steps was about five skeevers and a bare chested man with fire in his hands and crazy in his eyes.

"Poisoners! Murderers! None of you understand the truth! I'll tear down this whole house!" He screamed.

Dulurza gave Xander a 'see what I mean' look and reached for her battleaxe.

A few minutes later, the man had been knocked unconscious, the skeevers had been quickly and unceremoniously dragged out of sight, and the captain of the guard was furiously dragging the owner off to Whiterun prison, after a hysterical confession from the man's second about how 'the madman has been a known factor for years, you see, but I couldn't report it or the boss said he'd fire me...'

The Khajit, introducing herself as L'laarzen, had apologised profusely for interrupting them, and had immediately offered to buy drinks for the whole table for the night, much to both their delight. Interestingly enough, the stand-in barman and tattletale, Mallus Maccius, had easily offered to provide the first round for free, leading to the inevitable question of what L'laarzen had been doing down there in the first place.

"Well." Her ears flicked in what might have been embarrassment. "Khajit was hired by our new patron to perform some...less than pleasant tasks, but was interrupted by the loud, shirtless man living in the rats' nest. She decided that it would be easier and more legal to simply reveal him to the world."

"Hah! That's a much more direct approach than I'd expect from a sneak thief." Dulurza chuckled. "I like you."

"No, L'laarzen is not a thief." The Khajit protested. "Just as you who wield an axe are not a woodcutter. L'laarzen is a hair stylist."

Xander perked up. "Hair stylist? Do you do beards?"

L'laarzen squinted at him. "Oh, of course. But you do not have one."

Xander's face fell.

Dulurza snorted.

"And if Khajit could make hair grow, there are many bald Men and Mer who would have made her rich by now." L'laarzen giggled. "But, that does not mean this one is beyond L'laarzen's help. You desire the look of a mage, no? The right tricks with your hair would help, and perhaps Khajit could shave some patterns into what little facial hair you do have, mages do love their swirls and zig-zags..."

Dulurza grinned. "Well all this boy can cast is half a healing spell, so if you can make him look like a mage, then I'll buy the next round."

"Oi! Hey L'laarzen, new challenge, if you can make this seven foot tall death creature look civilised, then I'll pay for a round!"

L'laarzen grinned right back, and reached into her bag for her tools.

Suffice to say, it was a noticeably intoxicated, noticeably well groomed trio that wandered out of Honningbrew Meadery in the early hours of the next morning.

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Fog swept through the Reach in the early hours of the next morning.

Guards clutched their torches close and swords closer as they made their rounds between the farms and villages. Farmers opened their curtains, tutted, and closed them again, checking their doors were locked before going to bed for another few hours.

And down by the side of a small river, Hjarnagredda stood up, bare naked, and stretched. A light dusting of fur on the ground around her, and a few lingering bloodstains on her body, were the only signs left of what had happened last night. Except, of course, what was stored in her mind. She walked over to the river, dunked her head under, and screamed as loudly as she could.

She felt absolutely amazing, which always happened right after her transformations. Taking onto and then shedding the form of the beast was a complete reset for her body, a metamorphosis or regeneration that left her completely healed on the tail end. Her broken hands, broken nose, and cracked skull were completely healed, as were the myriad smaller damages she'd accumulated over the last week. Her fragility was the only thing the transformation ever left behind. That and the hunger, of course, and speaking of...

She quickly spotted the elk she'd brought down as a beast, and set to the ritual she'd perfected over years; skinning the animal with a sharp stone, laying the pelt flat on a rock, and building a small fire with which to cook the meat. While it was cooking, she returned to the river, gulping up water until her thirst was satisfied and then diving in to clean herself off. While doing so, she began musing on just when everything had gone so wrong.

She had always been a brittle child. Her parents had said often that the gods had crafted the heart of a lion, the eyes of a raven, and the mind of a daedra, then put them all in the wrong damn body. Living out in the Forsworn camps, the elders had quickly pegged her as a witch doctor, crafter, or if necessary, a gift to the hagravens. That had never satisfied her, however, oh no, she had wanted to be strong. She had wanted to hunt.

So who do you pray to, if not the god of the hunt? It certainly seemed that Hircine had been listening.

Yes, Hjarnagredda was a werewolf. Her affliction was not as practical as some, but not as debilitating many. Hircine's blessing seemed to function differently on a case by case basis, from what she'd read, and no one breed was ever quite the same as another. Hjar's...it felt like nothing unlike having a small wolf curled up in the pit of her stomach. At times like now, it was asleep, but it would gradually awaken, and grow angrier and angrier. She could control it to some extent, coax it out early or suppress it, but after about a week? It would always break out. At first, she had laughed, and sung Hircine's praises! She could go out alone of an evening, transform, hunt enough to feed herself and hunt a little more. Come back the next morning with four rabbits swinging from her belt and a deer slung over her shoulders.

Of course, that couldn't last. People had begun to accuse her of cheating somehow, of buying or stealing the kills, and had demanded to follow her on her hunts. She could hardly transform in front of them, meaning she'd been forced to wait and release the beast at other times. Less opportune times.

It had been about six months before they caught her; three of her fellow Forsworn had snuck out after her one night and watched her transform. They had screamed, called her a monster, and sworn to tell the camp elders about her so she would be killed.

So, in her blood haze, she had killed them.

Hjar emerged from the river, shaking the worst of the water and the memories off, and sat by the fire, turning the meat.

She'd lived alone, for years, in the woods between Falkreath and Markarth. She'd scavenged as herself and hunted as the beast. And then when she'd returned to her home city?

Too much violence in too short a time. She should have been able to last another four days without an outburst, but, well, her imminent death had been more than motivation enough to speed up the process.

She decided, in hindsight, that she didn't regret doing it, as her teeth bit down into the meat. Even her cursed life was more appealing than Oblivion; I mean come on, I haven't even hit thirty years yet.

But that just left her with the new question; what in Azura's name am I going to do now?

She finished up as much of the elk as she could, leaving the rest for the real wolves. Once the pelt was dried, she fashioned it into some makeshift clothing, and wrapped herself up until she was halfway decent. Looking at her reflection in the water, she had to laugh. Well, you sure look a proper Forsworn now.

After a moment, the image changed, and Hjar caught a glimpse of Margret's horrified expression in the water.

That earned a scowl. Walking away from then edge, she returned to the elk carcass, and pulled its skull free from its remains. She broke a stick from a nearby tree, dug it into the ground, and hung the skull from the top. She curtseyed before the grisly totem. "For you, lord Hircine. I can't even be mad at you. Much as I'd like to be. Oh, and Molag Bal says hello."

The totem didn't reply as she turned away, and began to climb the tallest hill she could see to get her bearings. The only thing she could still think to do was what Molag Bal had told her to. Find this 'Logrolf' character.

Divines know what would happen if I pissed off another daedric prince.

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"They're getting bolder, my lady. It may not be a significant matter to the security here, but trade caravans heading into the city have been affected."

"Its not that I don't recognise the issue, Falk, but I lack the capacity to do anything about it. Solitude's guard is weaker than it's ever been..."

Dulurza noted, with some satisfaction, that Elisif seemed to be standing up for herself more.

She walked up into the Blue Palace to see the Jarl holding court (seemed to be all she ever did) with many of the familiar figures around the keep.

Elisif did seem to straighten once she saw the Orc climb up the steps, holding up a hand to stall Falk in whatever he was saying.

"Dulurza, you have returned. Were you able to complete the task I set?"

"Yes, my Jarl." Dulurza replied, working her tongue around the unfamiliar form of address. "I got caught up dismantling a criminal group near Whiterun, so I'm sorry if I'm back late."

"Not at all." Elisif smiled. "Jarl Balgruuf can only be more endeared to us by you solving problems in his hold. And...thank you. You've done me a great service."

Dulurza nodded, then reached into one of the pockets in her armour. She knelt before Elisif's throne, and drew out the jewelled silver amulet. "A gift. It's enchanted to grant you better protection."

"O-oh." Elisif blushed, looking down at her. "Thank you, only, what have I done to merit this?"

"It's customary for an Orc to bring back a tribute after being sent on a mission." Dulurza explained, not looking up. "And I thought it might be distressing if I brought back a severed head."

Elisif laughed, as did a few members of the court, and Dulurza realised they probably thought it was a joke.

"Well then, thank you very much for your consideration." Elisif accepted the gift, fastening it around her neck. "I imagine the servants might be quite put out by having to deal with the mess of a...severed head."

"I'll keep that in mind, my Jarl."

"If my lady is quite finished," drawled Stentor, "then we must get back to the matter of the raids. The barbarism of the attacks has one obvious culprit." She fixed Dulurza with a steely gaze. "Perhaps the mercenary would care to tell us why Orcs are raiding trade caravans to Solitude?"

Dulurza snorted. "What? Orcs aren't doing this."

Sybille's eyes narrowed. "Oh really. What makes you so sure?"

"Because the chief ordered us not to arouse suspicion from Solitude while we prepare to attack it." Was the truth, but Dulurza supposed that wouldn't be a well received response. She bit her lip. "Well, do you have a map?"

Falk gestured to a large one on a table, and Dulurza walked over. "Where were the attacks?"

Apparently, on the route leading up between Solitude and Morthal. "Thought so. Well for one thing, no self respecting Orc camp would raid supplies unless they were at war. It's a sign that you aren't capable of surviving on your own, so have to steal from others. We pride ourselves on our independence. And for another," I've always wanted to do this, she pulled a knife from her belt and jabbed it into the map. Everyone in the room winced, and Falk muttered "that was imported..." under his breath.

"The Haafingar Orc stronghold is up in that area." She declared, patting the hilt of the knife, embedded west-northwest of the capital. "If they were to raid, they'd do it on the route in from Dragonbridge, not Morthal."

"Unless they were demonstrating a little more brain matter than I thought they possessed." Sybil muttered.

"Then what do you suggest?" Elisif asked. "Who is raiding us?"

Dulurza leaned over the map and thought. "Well, for one thing, aren't you at war with those Stormcloaks?" She offered.

Sybille shook her head. "Not possible. If there were a Stormcloaks camp in Haafingar, I would have found it."

"Because you've been so reliable before..." Dulurza muttered, and noticed out of the corner of her eye that Elisif hid a smile behind one hand. "But if not them...there are those crazy Reach folk, aren't there? This isn't far out of their usual range."

"Forsworn?" Elisif frowned. "Jarl Igmund has promised Skyrim that they are under control, and confined to the Reach. I doubt they would be so bold as to cross into Haafingar territory and risk angering another hold."

"Actually," coughed a man in Imperial garb, an envoy of General Tullius, "We have a spy in Markarth who reports that the Forsworn have become significantly more active of late. She herself has been attacked multiple times within Markarth's walls, and even members of the Silver-Blood family dedicated to corralling the Reachmen have been targeted. It is possible that these insurrectionists are also attempting to expand."

"'Not that we can send the guard to go check." Falk huffed. "Our best bet is to just tell Igmund to crack down on them and hope it's enough."

"Actually," Elisif pointed out, "we may not have to." She looked across at Dulurza.

"My lady, please, I must object." Stentor cut in. "It is unwise to delegate so much responsibility onto one mercenary-"

"Would you like to go yourself, Sybille?" Elisif asked, cutting across her. When all she got was silence, she continued. "Then we are remarkably low on other options. Besides, investigating attacks like this is the reason Dulurza was hired in the first place." She turned back to the Orc. "I apologise for giving you a new task so soon after returning, but-"

"Not at all, my Jarl." Dulurza bowed, and gave Stentor a smug look. "I'll get on it within the hour. And if there is a Forsworn camp attacking you...well, there soon won't be."

Nobody brings Solitude to its knees except Mor Khazgur.

8˂

"It's not that bad, ma'am, if you would let me-"

"Oh, how droll. Allow me to make a counter offer. You leave right now and I won't summon the Dark Brotherhood upon you."

The door slammed open and a terrified looking young girl bolted out, desperately offering apologies as she scarpered.

L'laarzen let her pass, then peered in through the doorway to see an irate looking Maven Black-Briar.

"Tell me you bring good news." The matriarch snarled.

L'laarzen winced. "Perhaps not good, but I was successful."

She handed over the missive she'd found in Sabjorn's room. Maven's eyes scanned quickly over it. "Well, this doesn't tell us anything. Someone was paying Sabjorn to resist me, but all we have to go on is this letter."

"The same initial as was on the bill of sale, in Goldenglow Estate." L'laarzen nodded. "Someone is trying to drive a wedge between your family and the thieves guild."

"Then they've made a mistake. Now my eyes are on them."

Maven looked up at her, folding the letter and handing it back. "You have performed your duties adequately, and will be suitably paid. Bring this back to your guild master, perhaps he will be able to make some use of it."

"Thank you." L'laarzen took the paper and bowed. She made to leave, but paused. "What was the problem you had before I entered? That girl seemed scared half to death."

Maven's expression soured further. "I have a meeting with representatives of the Aldmeri dominion in an hour. That feckless waif was my hair and makeup, but clearly has no idea what she's doing. A traditional Nordic double braid for a meeting with the Altmer? I should think she was trying to kill me."

L'laarzen tutted. "Oh, amateur. Might Khajit suggest a Potemic wolftail? It borrows heavily from Summerset style, but is seperate enough that they won't think you're trying to outdo them."

Maven gave her a calculating look. "Perhaps, but there's not one stylist in ten who can put a Nord's hair in that braid. I don't have anyone who could get here to do it in time."

"Actually..." L'laarzen smiled at her. "You do."

Maven tilted her head. "I've heard about your little games in the marketplace, I thought it was just a cover. Do you actually know what you're doing?"

"L'laarzen is the best hairdresser on Mundus." She replied, unflinchingly. "And probably on Masser and Secunda as well."

Something in her confidence (confidence well earned) seemed to resonate with the Black-Briar.

"If you ruin this for me, I will have every freelance organisation in Skyrim after your head." Threatened the businesswoman.

"If Khajit could not perform under pressure, she would not be a professional." L'laarzen reached into her satchel, challenge gleaming in her eyes. "Shall we get started?"

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Hjar was, admittedly, quite impressed with how well the Orc was sneaking. She moves like a hunter. She realised. And a good one, even if she's seven feet tall. Course, I imagine she isn't usually wearing full plate armour while she's doing that...oh, I see...

Hjar crept up until she was just out of axe range behind the woman, before straightening and casually asking "Who was it that you got to put muffle on those boots? They did good-"

Swoosh-

HIRCINE'S LEFT TESTACLE-

Hjar tried not to move as the blade came to rest upon her neck, mentally reevaluating her idea of 'out of axe range'. "...work."

Wasn't expecting her to be able to single-hand it and keep it steady when holding the far end of it I would kill for this woman's arms-

"State why I shouldn't kill you." The Orc glanced down her form, noting her simple fur clothing. "Forsworn."

"Because I'm not a Forsworn." Hjar lied, sort of, not sure if she even classed as one at the moment, "And I'm here for the same reason you are."

"Really?" The Orc's axe hadn't so much as wavered yet. "What would that be?"

"You've been scouting Deepwood redoubt for the past twenty minutes." Hjar replied, listing her observations. "And it's standard Orc doctrine to do that before raiding a location. Not to mention this is one of the newer, northmost Forsworn camps, meaning it's spreading into both your territory and Solitude's. You're here to tear this place to the ground."

"You're one of those big-brain types, aren't you?" The Orc asked.

"I like to think so." Hjar responded. When you couldn't use muscles to solve a problem, you learned to observe everything very closely. Finding the most efficient approach was a good way to compensate for lacking power.

"So why did you decide to approach me?" The Orc still hadn't let the axe waver, it had been almost a minute now.

"Because, frankly, same." Hjar smiled. "There's a man in here that's been kidnapped, and I'm here to break him out. If I was alone, I would have to try something stealthy. But working with you..."

The Orc bit her lip, stood silently for another few seconds, then smoothly pulled the axe back and resheathed it, holding out her other arm. "I'm Dulurza."

"Hjarnagredda." Hjar replied, shaking it. "Call me Hjar."

"Hjar, you're lucky I've had good experience with working as a pair recently." Dulurza said. "But keep in mind that if you try and stab me in the back I'll kill you before the knife's gone half an inch."

"No problem." Hjar replied, rubbing her neck self consciously. "But seriously, who enchanted the boots?"

"The good experience." Dulurza replied, making no move to extrapolate.

"Alright then." Hjar moved past her to look out through the trees. The camp was busy, alright, she could spot half a dozen hostiles on the outside alone. "So. Given I'm a native of these parts, would you like me to give you the rundown on Forsworn tactics and defences?"

"On your left!"

Dulurza ducked the swing of the Forsworn sword (whether that was due to Hjar's warning or not, she couldn't tell) and Hjar darted into the opening to deliver an upward strike to the attacker's jaw, staggering him backwards.

Dulurza certainly took advantage of the moment, spinning a full circle and decapitating the man outright.

Hjar fell back a moment to catch her breath, switching the mace to her other hand and shaking out her wrist. She had found that she was always at her strongest right after the transformation, but that burst of strength was quickly fading, to be replaced by sore arms and shortness of breath. Also fading was the pang of guilt she felt every time she put a Forsworn to death. Four of the bleeding men and women they had left in their wake were her kills alone, and they'd failed to produce anything other than a dull throb in her heart. Atereffects of the wolf? Or was she just losing all morales? All she knew was, every time she began to think too hard about what she was doing...up popped an image of Betrid. Of Margret. Terrified, almost dying because of what these people were doing. The Forsworn I know wouldn't slaughter innocent people, Nords or no...what's going on?

"That seems to be the last of them." Dulurza remarked, wiping off her blade. "I vote we split up. You go look for your prisoner, I'll do my thing."

"Got it." Hjar shook her head to dispel the reverie, and went.

She found her target a few minutes later, among an assortment of tents.

Logrolf the Wilful was...pretty much exactly what you'd expect someone with that name and title to be.

"And who in Oblivion are you?" The bearded old man hacked, squinting up at a Hjar as she walked in.

"Easy, old man." She told him, wrinkling her nose against the smell of the tent. It seemed he'd been kept bound on his knees for...a while, to say the least. "I'm no Forsworn. You want up?"

"Who sent you?" He demanded, for some reason angry that she was trying to rescue him. "Nobody knew where I was."

"I'm not here for you." she snapped back, the genuine anger helping her sell the lie. "For Hircine's sake, I'm just helping my friend loot this place. Do you want me to cut your bonds or do I leave you here to starve?"

"Hmph. Fine." He acquiesced, turning to give her easier access to his tied hands. "Then you'd better get out of my way. There's a task I need to attend to."

"Whatever, asshole." She leaned down with a knife and cut him free.

He had the audacity to shove her aside as he left, and she gasped after him in genuine astonishment. Old bastard. I hope you get whatever Molag's got coming to you.

The wolf in her stomach growled in agreement, and she told it to shut up.

Back outside, Hjar found Dulurza inspecting a trashed cart in the centre of the camp.

"Hey, Big-brain." She called over. "Come take a look at this, what do you make of it?"

Hjar gave the cart a once-over, taking in the long dead occupants, the empty crates in the back, and the burn marks on the sides. Nodding, she walked over to the richest dressed body and started rummaging through his pockets. "Looks to me like a supply raid. Forsworn came in, butchered the traders, brought their cart back here and unloaded. And..." she pulled out a small leather bound tome, flicked through it to confirm its contents, and threw it over. "That's a record of his sales and shipment. This what you were hired for, tracking down the missing order?"

"Pretty much." Dulurza nodded, catching the book. "And this is a record of it?"

"Check for yourself."

The Orc bit her lip. "I...can't read Imperial characters."

Hjar tried very hard not to laugh. "Well, yes, it is." She looked back at the cart and grimaced. "Only issue is, Forsworn don't usually do things like that. The plan is to be recognised as a nation, we would never have killed innocent traders back when-"

"We?" Dulurza asked.

Hjar winced and the Orc tilted her head. "What's wrong? Something's been bothering you ever since we met."

"You mean ever since you put an axe in my face?" The humour failed entirely to move Dulurza, and Hjar sighed and leaned back against the cart. "I'm having a full blown no-face crisis, that's what's wrong."

Dulurza frowned, and met her eyes. "You don't know who you are?"

"Huh, Orc tribes have that phrase too?"

"It happens more often than you'd think. When it's not uncommon to have to kill a family member in your lifetime, Orcs sometimes can forget what really matters." Dulurza raised an eyebrow. "Want to talk about it?"

Hjar laughed. "So you're, what, a battle-therapist?"

"You're using humour to avoid showing weakness."

"Oof. And a good one." Hjar blew out a breath. "Alright, you want the list?

I used to be a Forsworn. I believed what we were doing was right, I think I still do, only they keep doing things that I can't imagine my people ever doing. Not to mention, I keep killing them, in part because of this...condition I have that makes me lose control, and in part because of a terrible run of bad luck and worse choices. And now I don't even seem to feel anything when I do it. Only if I'm not a Forsworn, then what do I do next? The only other ties I have are a half finished quest for a Daedric Prince, and a cute girl back in Markarth who thinks I'm a monster.

So yeah. Who in Oblivion am I?"

Dulurza listened to the rant in silence, nodding slowly once it was finished.

"Short fight, mid fight, and long fight." She said, after a while.

"Come again?"

"Orc teaching. Works for everything, I'm trying to apply it to this." Dulurza crossed her arms and furrowed her eyebrows in concentration. "Who you are is based on what you want. What you care about, what you don't care about, what you won't let stand. Middle stuff is 'I always keep my axe sharpened, make sure to stay on the baker's good side', stuff like that. Long stuff is what you're struggling with now. 'What cause do I fight for, who are my people?'."

She walked over and put a hand on Hjar's shoulder. "If you're not sure who you are, you start with the short stuff. Who do I like? Who do I not like? In the simplest, moment by moment actions, what's good and what's bad? You build the rest up from there."

"I might not have enough time to rebuild a whole sense of self." Hjar chuckled weakly.

"You're strong. You'll figure it out." Dulurza turned and started walking. "I've got to go report this. Good luck in your Daedric Quest."

"Thanks." Hjar replied, automatically, still digesting the Orc's words. "You too."

"And good luck getting the cute girl to like you again."

Hjar spluttered, but by the time she could formulate a response, Dulurza was gone.

If you look into Skyrim lore, you'll find that the companions variant is only one of many ways lycanthropy works. So this is how Hjar's does. My brain went 'ooh, weakling who turns into a giant murder beast' and started plotting.

Next time: Someone wakes up drunk, someone will not shut up, and lots of people do lots of travelling around.