A/N: Another short chapter for you, guys. Hope you enjoy it.

I might let something slip up here and there, since I'm rather new to Skyrim. I'd mostly been playing Oblivion, and since the MC hails from the south, he'll be using the 'traditional' schools of Magic. AKA- Conjuration, Destruction, Mysticism, Alteration, Illusion and Restoration.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. On to the reading.

Chapter 1

He was running out of supplies.

Such statement was further reinforced when he reached his hand into the satchel for a flask of essence of Nightshade, only to find it near empty. Mildly annoyed by the inconvenience, Mithras lets an almost imperceptible sigh escape his lips, before proceeding with the preparing of his most recent concoction.

"Hmm…let's see." Using a simple cantrip to flip to the next page of his journal, he quickly ran his eyes over the recipe's instructions. "Next, the Imp Stool spores."

Many an alchemist would proudly claim their practices were more art, than craft. While Mithras most certainly did not share their poetic enthusiasm for the school, he certainly saw great value in it. Alchemy allows one to turn the most basic of materials into something more. Wrapped in elaborate formulas, codes, symbols and metaphors, the practice was closely linked to the ideals of the Trickster god Lorkhan- those of transformation into a higher state of being.

One of the more common perceptions of the craft was the transmutation of lead into gold, even though that was only one of many wonders a skilled alchemist could create. As an apprentice, he'd been taught by one of those masters during his time at the College, though he was far from being that skilled in it.

Pushing those distracting thoughts to the side, he focused on the task at hand. With great care, he poured a few drops of the boiling Deathbell nectar into the retort vessel, using a special silver rod to mixture it with the purple paste, slowly channeling his magicka into the boiling ingredients as the catalyst for the reaction.

A few minutes pass, until finally, the distillation is complete. In the alembic connected to the free end of the glass retort, a dark, viscous, purple liquid begins to drip slowly. It takes a while for the flask to fill completely, leaving only the non-reactive remains behind.

"Hmm…" Now, he only needed to test it on a live subject. Fortune seemed to be on his side though, as his eyes caught sight of a rat trying to scurry its way through the straw lining of the roof. A simple use of telekinesis was enough to capture the little thing, and as it struggled against the magical grip, he held the open flash close to its snout.

A mere sniff was enough. As the rat inhaled the poisonous vapors, its body seized in paralysis, before it died- instantly.

"A success then." Careful not to break the vial of poison, he places it in a special compartment of his potion bandolier. The story behind the recipe was certainly an amusing one- at least for his patron.

With that, his preparations for the mission were complete. Blade strapped on his back, with his face hidden in the shadows of his hood, he steps out through the Winking Skeever's front door just as the Sun begins its slow ascent in the horizon.

"Spare some gold for a veteran?" a beggar asks as he passes. He tosses him a septim.

Unsurprisingly, the man had a favor to ask of him- something regarding a helmet he'd lost. Honestly, it sounded like a complete waste of his time, but he promised to give it back to him if he found it.

A small price to pay for another pair of ears in the city, he supposed.

It was around noon, and he'd already been walking for a few hours, when something made him suddenly halt on his tracks.

"Hmm…" Sniffing the calm breeze that blew from the sea, he felt the all-so-familiar stench of rotting flesh- the sweet, yet putrescent smell filled in his nostrils, making him frown.

Needless to say, it got him on edge.

It didn't take him very long to find the source.

Scattered all across the verdant pastures of a farm, the dead carcasses of several horses lie at the mercy of crows and flies. Blood and viscera paint the grass around them in a macabre shade of red, the almost unbearable stench making his stomach grovel.

Amidst that scene of carnage not so dissimilar from that of a shrine to Namira, a man knelt by one of the carcasses. He looked absolutely miserable, tears flowing down his cheeks as he sobbed uncontrollably, his hand stroking the head of a dead horse.

"What happened here?" Mithras asked, as he stepped up behind him.

"Ruined! I'm completely ruined!" the man cries out, his voice cracking. A Nord, by his physical stature and accent. "My prized horses are dead!"

"Hmm…" A horse breeder then- that certainly explained his despair, though he did not share in it. Still, he did his best to hide his indifference as he asked. "Who killed them?"

"Those damn trolls!" the black-haired Nord replies furiously, his hands balled into fists- as if ready to fight some imaginary enemy. "Came in the middle of the night, slaughtered our animals, and nearly got Blaise too! Poor boy had to hide in the roof."

"Hm?"

"Our stable boy." the Nord rebukes at his raised eyebrows. He seemed to have calmed down a bit, after the initial outburst. "Kid lost his parents in the war, so we took him in."

"No wonder your precious horses died, then. Your guard dog is a child."

"I…I don't know what to do." the man never seemed to register his little jab, his gaze turning to the other carcasses spread all over the field. "I'll have to take a loan just to make it for the winter. And I'm not sure if I'll be able to repay it afterwards, not with those trolls around. The city guards won't hear me out! I'm ruined, ruined…"

"I can deal with those trolls for you."

"Huh? You would do that for me?" the Nord asks back with an expression of almost disbelief. "Divines bless you, High El-"

"I didn't say I'd do it for free, though." The Altmer is quick to add, his meric face expressionless and indifferent. Much like the fields, plain. As the man tries to babble out an answer, he quickly studies the scene around him, before continuing. "It seems like I'll be dealing with a large group. A thousand septims, and you'll never see a wolf again."

"One thousand Septims? Shor's balls! That's too much!"

"It's a risky job." Mithras rebukes, not batting an eye at the man's shock. What? Did the human expect him to do it out of the kindness of his heart? He was a battlemage, not a priest. "Besides, that is the average price for a horse in most places. Don't act like I'm shanking you."

"Fine!" The man surrenders with an exasperated sigh, all the fight lost in him. "Get rid of those cursed trolls for me, and you can have the gold!"

"Hm." A curt nod is all the response he gives, before he raises his hand up on the air and whispers a phrase- a call to the Hunting Grounds of Hircine, a gust of wind rushes past him, and amidst the silence of that sad, cloudy day, an ear-piercing howl makes itself heard.

He can hear the Nord behind him curse in surprise as his familiar materializes beside him, an immense, spectral direwolf hailing from the far reaches of Oblivion. His daedric companion growls at the man, before turning its gaze to the Altmer.

"Trolls." He says, nodding to the carcass lying before them. "Can you track them?"

Ever loyal, the spirit takes a few sniffs at the decomposing flesh, before growling and darting towards the hills to the South. Mithras did not even think twice before following on its tracks.

It took them a few hours of walking, but eventually, they came by a small cave hidden under the roots of a dead pine tree. Even with the wind blowing from the sea to the North, the stench emanating from that place was almost unbearable. It reeked of death, piss and rotten flesh.

It made him want to burn the whole place down.

"Thank you." He pats his familiar's head before dispelling it. While he and the Daedra had been partners for a very long time- their pact having been made with the help of his father, when he was still a boy- it wasn't as good a fighter, as it was a scout or tracker. No, to fight a group of trolls, he'd need to bring out a heavy hitter.

"Long time, no see." The red-skinned Dremora greets, letting his massive Daedric battleaxe hang over his shoulder in a relaxed manner. "Who do you want me to kill?"

A Tragedy in Black often warned about the dangers of making deals with Dremora- it was a folk tale from the times of the Oblivion Crisis, about a boy who had his soul stolen by a summoned Dremora. While the story did hold some truths about the dangers of Conjuration, only a fool or a weakling would get himself killed by an improperly bound summon.

It was a pity, then, that Nirn was filled with those.

That Dremora in question was one of his more useful pacts- a Bloodwraith pit fighter from Boethia's realm. His sole purpose of existence was to fight and kill his enemies, to drink their blood and relish in their suffering.

Obviously, that made him the ideal summon. "Trolls." The Altmer calmly replies. "Let's kill them and get this over with."

"As you command!" the Dremora states with a savage smirk, before charging into the cave with his axe in hand, roaring a challenge that echoes through the dark- and that soon, is answered by its inhabitants.

The first troll to emerge out of the shadows is greeted with a fireball right to its three-eyed face. The wild beast screeches in excruciating pain as the magical flames start to eat at its flesh, setting its oily, white fur ablaze. A second fireball puts it out of its misery, though not before its soul is captured by the mage.

"To your right!" he warns, just as another of the beast jumps down from a ledge on the rocky wall with a roar. The Daedra grins madly, swing his immense axe to meet the beast's claws. Blood splatters all over, as the limb is completely amputated by the Dremora's blade.

Yet Mithras barely has any time to admire his summon's handiwork, for while he's distracted toying with the beast, another of the trolls charges in the Altmer's direction in a frenzy.

"Fuck!" Mithras barely has time to dodge, as the troll's arm him in the chest with the strength of a giant, throwing him back several feet, making him curse under his breath as he feels his bones crack under his breastplate. Calling forth a spell in the Aldmeri language, he locks his gaze on the approaching monster, before calling. "Molag!"

At his call, unbound flames spring forth from his hands in an all-consuming inferno, engulfing the charging Snow Troll, setting is body alight and devouring it in their wrath. Fueled by his magicka, the fires of Oblivion took over the cave, turning it into a pyre as the remaining trolls either burned, or were cut down by the Dremora's merciless axe.

When the fires finally died out, very little remained of the monsters that dwelled in that grout.

Or so he had thought, for, in the darkness, another cry makes itself heard. It was the furious call of a brood mother, whose children he'd most probably burned.

Chapter End

A/N: Tried to keep things short again, still keeping rich descriptions while not neglecting on the action and movement.

Anyways, thanks for the reading guys, I'll see you on the next chapter.

Wildfurion.