This took WAY longer than I wanted it to. Took me awhile to decide what Ysrae's power was going to be. Anyway, hopefully the next chapter will come to me easier. Thank you to the people you have followed and/or added this story to their favorites! I greatly appreciate it and it helps give me motivation to make time to work on LOTSE. THANK YOU!

Note: I do not own Skyrim or its characters. I have only thought up my own OCs for this story. This is rated M for a reason and will have mature themes. I will try to remember to put a warning before every chapter but if one is missing or you think something should be added please let me know. Also, here is a small guide to help with my writing style.

Italicized with no quotes is the character's thoughts

"No italics with quotes," is the characters speaking the common tongue.

"Italicized with quotes," is the character speaking another language, most likely falmer.

Hope that helps.

WARNINGS:mild langue, blood, and fighting.

Mol drinks deeply from his tankard. He's seated in the corner of Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead. He's been trying to drink away his problems. Of course, it won't work, but it feels good to forget for a while. Mol's thoughts drift to his former tribe. The look of disappointment on his mother's face is seared into his mind. He growls and downs the rest of his drink. Some of the patrons are staring at him wearily, as if he is a wild animal about to attack.

He signals the barmaid for another drink. She swiftly brings him another. At least she seems to have gotten used to my presence.

"Thanks," he grunts, dropping coin into her hand.

It probably helps I tip her well at the end of the night. Mol snorts. The septims are most likely why he's been tolerated for the past week. Mol's interactions with humans have been limited up to this point; in his experience, they have a hard time getting over his green complexion and tusks.

A crack of thunder cuts through the warm atmosphere. Apparently, the weather is matching Mol's stormy mood. He chuckles darkly and drinks half the tankard in two gulps. He pushes his mage's hood off his head and goes to run his hand through his hair. His hand stops short. He sighs and pulls the hood back over his head. I keep forgetting I cut my hair off. He finishes his fifth drink of the night.

Before he can signal for another, the door bursts open. A drenched Argonian comes in, closing the door behind him. No one seems to have noticed the man. Mol watches him. To him, it seems the Argonian has an air of desperation surrounding him. The Argonian catches Mol staring. Mol looks into his empty tankard. Please don't come over here.

"Hey," a voice rasps out.

Mol looks up, "Yes?"

"Do you happen to be a warrior for hire?"

Mol stares coolly at him. "It depends. What do you need a warrior for?"

The Argonian stares hard at him. He sighs, "May I sit?"

Mol waves at the seat across from him. The Argonian sits and stares at his hands. Mol waves the barmaid over and orders two drinks. The Argonian seems to be gathering his thoughts. The barmaid brings the drinks back, setting one in front of the Argonian. He gives Mol a questioning look.

"I need a drink," Mol says in his deep rumbling voice, "and it's rude not to order a drink for a guest."

"Fair enough," he takes a drink. He sets the tankard down and settles in. "My name is Scouts-Many-Marshes. I am trying to find a warrior to help me rescue someone."

Mol raises an eyebrow at him. Why is he looking here and not a main hold? He takes a drink.

The Argonian sighs, "Look I have been to Windhelm and back looking for help. I can't find anyone willing to do anything. Are you a warrior or not?"

Mol takes another drink and puts down his tankard harder than he means to. "I am, but if I help you depends on what kind of rescue this is. If you're trying to break someone out of jail or anything involving the law, you can forget about it."

Scouts-Many-Marshes shakes his head, "It is not like that. A woman's family was killed and she was kidnapped by a group of mercenaries turned bandits."

"How do you know that?" Mol gives him a piercing stare.

Scouts-Many-Marshes looks away and drains his tankard. His silence is answer enough for Mol.

"So," Mol sits back and crosses his arm, "you want to betray your friends for a woman."

"They stopped being my friends when they eradicated the last remains of a race," Scouts shoots back.

"Hmm? What do you mean?" Mol leans forward, curious.

Scouts-Many-Marshes leans in closer. "They killed off what may have been the last group of Snow Elves," he says in a low voice, "and the last one is trapped. Being abused."

Mol sits back, stunned. "I can see why you left," he murmurs. "I've always been curious about the Snow Elves. I can't believe there's one left."

"Her name is Ysrae," Scouts-Many-Marshes says angrily.

"Right, sorry," Mol rumbles. He finishes his drink and thinks. "I will help you, but not tonight. Drink and battle do not mix."

The Argonian nods, "As long as we leave at first light. Ysrae has been trapped a long time and I think she is close to breaking."

Mol gives him a sympathetic look and nods, "In that case, I best get to sleeping this off." Mol stands, swaying slightly.

Scouts-Many-Marshes eyes widen, "You are much bigger than I thought you were."

Mol smirks, "I'm the largest Orc you will ever see."

Scouts-Many-Marshes chuckles, "That I do not doubt."

Mol grunts and staggers to his room, the mead finally hitting him. He falls into bed; the bed groaning in protest. His eyes feel heavy. He lets the darkness of sleep overtake him.

….

Mol groans. A knock pierces his head, most likely what woke him up in the first place. He mumbles unintelligibly. He forces his heavy eyelids open and sits up, holding his head. Mol has had worse hangovers, but it's never enjoyable.

"Are you awake or should I keep knocking?" a muffled voice asks.

Right. The Argonian. "Yea. Just come in," he grumbles.

Scouts opens the door, letting light into Mol's dark sanctuary. Mol groans and shoves his face into the furs on his bed. He hears the door close but refuses to look up.

"If you can handle it, we should get moving," the Argonian says coolly.

"Yea, yea," Mol groans and sits up. "Remind me where we are going? Last nights a little fuzzy."

Scouts crosses his arms and leans against the wall, "Lost knife hideout. It's a ways northeast from here."

Mol nods and stands, his head spinning slightly. He ignores it and stretches; his back popping. He sighs in satisfaction and sits back down. He grabs a jug full of water from the bed stand and slowly drinks it.

What were the details he told me last night? Bunch of his ex-friends have become bandits. Said bandits are holding a girl captive and being horrible to her. And…she's a Snow Elf!

Mol chokes on the water at this last thought. He eventually calms down his coughing and stares at Scouts-Many-Marshes.

"Is she really a Snow Elf?"

Scouts nods, "Someone in our group heard rumor of a small clan of Snow Elves in the Velothi Mountains. And my friends wiped them out," he says bitterly. "It is most of the reason why I am betraying them."

Mol nods and starts to put on his steel plate armor, "How long ago was this?"

"Around six months ago," Scouts mumbles, staring at the wall. "Ysrae thinks it has been longer though."

Mol wants to ask why it took him so long to leave…but he can see the shame on Scouts face and leaves it be.

"Think she would be willing to teach me about the Snow Elves?" Mol asks instead.

Scouts looks up in surprise, "Uhhh….probably."

Mol can't help but grin slightly as excitement bubbles up. I really hope she will be willing to teach me.

"Why are you interested?" Scouts questions; a strange look in his eyes.

"Who wouldn't be interested?" Mol shoots back, a little too loudly. He lowers his voice, "Getting to learn about the ancient Falmer is a once in a lifetime chance. I would gladly put off going to the College of Winterhold for several years to learn about the Falmer."

Mol freezes. He didn't mean to mention that bit about the mage's college. Mol glances at Scouts, whose face is surprisingly blank.

"You're a mage then?" Scouts askes deadpan.

"Err…," Mol looks away and finishes gathering what little possessions he has; avoiding the question.

He drinks a small healing potion in one gulp. It wouldn't due for Mol to get dizzy or sick in the middle of a fight. He secures his battle axe as well as his mostly empty pack to his back and puts up his mage hood.

"Let's go," Mol grunts. He smiles once Scout's back is turned. It's time for a good fight.

….

They reach the cave next to a stream just as the pink and orange of sunrise are disappearing. Mol pauses and swallows down a stamina potion.

"How many enemies should we expect?" Mol asks, throwing the empty vial into his pack.

"There should be around thirty," Scouts grimaces.

Mol gives him a sympathetic look, "You sure you're ready for this?"

Mol wants to ask if Scouts-Many-Marshes would rather wait here, but Mol would hate to have it suggested himself so he holds his tongue.

"Yea," Scouts grits his teeth. "Let's go," he pulls out a sword and slips into the entrance.

Mol shrugs and follows him. It's dark inside and the stream runs along a rocky path. Mol carefully moves forward. He can't see or hear anyone, but the stream makes it impossible for the latter. Scouts is a little farther up, crouched next a rock pillar. Mol moves next to him and kneels down.

"There should be one or two people on guard around this bend," Scouts whispers just loud enough for Mol to hear him.

Mol leans around the pillar and can see the warm light of a torch ahead. He grunts and stands. He moves around the bend and sees two men standing around a fire. He summons ice to his hand and takes careful aim. He shoots out an ice spike, draining the majority of his magicka. The spike hits the man closest to him on the right side of his lower back. He screams out in pain.

Oops. Mol readies his axe and charges. The impaled man turns, drawing a mace. The other man is just staring, too shocked to move. Mol swings his axe with a grunt. He hits the man in the chest, ending his misery. The second man finally jumps into action, drawing a sword. He raises his sword over his head. Before he can do anything, a knife flies out of the darkness and buries into his skull. His body falls to the ground.

"Nice hit," Mol says, wrenching his axe free from the body.

"I did not expect you to do that," Scouts mumbles, entering the light.

Mol says nothing and looks around some barrels for anything useful. He finds nothing and moves on. He follows the path to a large cavern with a lake. There are waterfalls rushing into the lake, the roar of which makes it impossible to hear anything else. At the center, there is a large rock pillar with wooden platforms built around it. Mol can see at least two people patrolling.

"Maybe we should try to be quieter from here on out?"

Mol jumps slightly. He didn't hear Scouts approach him.

Mol chuckles, "Sneaking may work for you, but it will not work for someone as large as me in full plate armor. Besides, I'm more of a take the enemy head on kind of guy."

Scouts sighs, "Fine. I will watch your back and give you support."

"As you will," Mol rumbles.

Mol squeezes his axe and strides across the natural bridge connected to the pillar. A woman spots him and pulls out a bow. Mol growls and runs at her. She yells something and takes aim. Mol roars at her, causing her to miss. He rushes her. She screams and tires to pull out a sword. Mol brings his axe down on her. She falls to her knees and Mol kicks her off the blade.

"Hey!" a gruff voice yells.

Mol turns to see a man charging him. Mol blocks his war axe just in time.

"You will pay for that, Orc filth," the man spits out.

Before Mol can retort, a blade bursts through the man's bare stomach; splattering blood all over him. The man falls back as Scouts removes his sword. Mol groans and hastily wipes his face with his hand.

"Bit late, weren't you?" Mol grumbles.

Scouts shrugs, "I got here, didn't I?"

"Hmph," Mol smiles. His smile disappears when he sees movement behind Scouts. "Look out!" he yells.

Mol drops his weapon as he pushes Scouts behind him. Flames burst from his hand into the face of a surprised man. The man screams in pain and runs away, pitching himself into the lake. Mol sighs in relief, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Ok. I admit, we should at least come up with a strategy," Mol holds his hand out to the fallen Scouts. Scouts takes his hand and Mol pulls him to his feet, "Sorry for pushing you so hard."

"Better than being dead," Scouts gives Mol a toothy grin. "Come on," he walks to a table and grabs parchment and a quill, "Let's make a plan."

….

"Should we be worried they were fleeing from something?" Mol wonders aloud, pulling his axe from the back of a woman who managed to slip past him in her terror.

"Yes," Scouts-Many-Marshes whispers. "This is not normal. No one would run like they did," he swept his hand over the four bodies in the narrow tunnel, "if Tove was just on a drunken rampage."

Mol nods, "Let's move quietly, for now. We will be able to hear them coming if anymore run. Plus, we might get an idea of what's happening."

Scouts nods his agreement and the two men crouch down. They move swiftly and mostly noiselessly through the tunnel. They pause when they can see the end of the tunnel. Mol can hear distant yelling…or screaming.

"Damn," Scouts hisses and rushes off.

"Wait!" Mol grabs at Scouts' arm, missing. Mol curses under his breath and follows Scouts.

Mol can't help but feel slightly impressed with the buried fort these bandits called home. He shakes his head. Gotta concentrate! He rushes through a hole in the side of the fort. He sees Scouts' tail disappear around a doorway. Mol grunts and sprints to try to catch up. He catches up after going up stairs and across a bridge.

Scouts is frozen at the beginning of a large cavern. Mol looks where Scouts is looking and freezes. There's an extremely pale woman with black hair kneeling on the ground with two specters guarding her. Bodies litter the ground around them. Mol swallows hard. He straps his axe onto his back and starts to walk to them.

"Wait," Scouts grabs his arm.

Mol turns to him. Scouts looks like he might puke.

"You sure you should go down there?"

"No. But I am going to anyways." Mol pulls his arm from Scouts' grip, "Stay up here. If they kill me, wait them out. They have to disappear eventually."

"Why don't you wait them out, then?"

Scouts' bewildered expression makes Mol laugh. Cause I'm young and dumb. Mol opts to leave Scouts without an answer and walks down to the specters. Plus, this is too interesting to stay away from. Mol puts his hands up as he approaches. He stops three meters away when the ghosts raise their luminous weapons.

Mol examines the woman, who he assumes is Ysrae. Her eyes are closed and her hands are clasped in front of her. Her lips are moving fervently, but Mol doesn't hear any words. He shifts his attention to the two ghosts, both of whom are staring daggers into him. He takes a moment to really examine them. One of them is male the other female. They appear to be wearing simple light armor. It's hard to make out any discernable features; the one thing Mol is sure of is that they are both taller than himself. Mol is used to being the tallest person in the room. It feels odd to have the tables turned. He vaguely wonders if the only corporeal snow elf in the room is taller than him as well.

Mol lightly shakes his head, forcing himself to focus. "Erm…" Mol is unsure of what to say or do. He clears his throat. "I came to help her," he says in a low voice, tilting his head at Ysrae.

Both of them relax their stances, but don't sheath their weapons. The female says something in a language Mol doesn't recognize. He stares at them. The male looks at her, possibly rolling his eyes and saying something.

"Uh…Sorry but I do not understand." Mol slowly lowers his hands, "So, I'm just going to check on her." Mol glances at both of them and takes a deep breath, "Please don't kill me."

The man nods and steps aside, the woman following his example. They can understand me? Mol swallows hard. He slowly moves closer to Ysrae and kneels in front of her. He releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He looks at her and sees blood running down her arm.

"Damn!" he hisses. How did I miss this much blood!

He grabs her bleeding arm. Her eyes snap open. They're glowing bright white. Mol stares in shock.

"What in Oblivian…" he whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut. Focus! If you don't do something, you'll let the last known snow elf die.

Mol grits his teeth and opens his eyes. Her eyes are boring into him. He carefully ghosts his fingers over the deep gash just above her wrist. Here goes nothing. He swallows hard and sends healing magicka to his fingertips. He's never healed someone else before, so he's relieved when the wound slowly starts stitching itself together. Sweat starts to form on his brow. He ignores it and forces his magicka to flow into her faster.

By they time he's depleted his magicka, Mol is panting from the exertion. Her wound isn't completely healed, but it is not bleeding anymore. Mol sees movement from the corner of his eye. He looks up and sees the two ghosts watching him. Their weapons are gone and they are nodding at Mol with approval. The man crouches and puts a hand on Mol's shoulder.

"Arcten sye," he says slowly and clearly. He smiles and they disappear. Ysrae collapses and Mol just manages to catch her.

"What in Nirn was that?" Scouts rushes over.

Mol shrugs, "How should I know. Do Me a favor and get a healing potion out of my pack." Mol feels Scouts digging around his bag. "Hey," Mol says gently to Ysrae.

He lightly slaps her face but she doesn't stir. He puts his fingers on her neck and feels a pulse. Scouts hands him the potion. Mol readjusts her so he is cradling her. He pulls the stopper with his teeth; spitting it out. He tilts her head and carefully pours the potion down her throat.

She stirs, her eyes fluttering. She grimaces and her eyes open, her silver-blue meeting his bright blue. She smiles at him, making his heart skip a beat.

"I have never met an Orc before," she mumbles out. She sounds completely out of it. "Thank you, varlai," she whispers, passing out once more.

Mol tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "She should be ok," he whispers. Mol stands with her in his arms. "Come on," he rumbles, turning to Scouts. "Let's get out of this Gods forsaken place."