With a dramatic kick of dust, the doors to the alchemy store slammed shut behind her. The Argonian girl brought two hands over her tender face, ran them down reddened eyes, and sighed. If you made barely enough income to cover the basics, how did she possibly expect to do well in a place of that kind of stature?
For as much as she covets her vast collection of fairy tales growing up, she would be kidding if anyone could live up to half the generosity those characters displayed in the real world. If only discount vouchers existed in Skyrim...
For the vast majority of Argonians, medicine was a luxury, not a right. Being poor was too expensive. If you somehow managed to pull the worst of the genetic lotto and landed a birth on the docks of Windhelm of all places, that sentiment would apply to you more than most.
It was as if life had destined her to a path of perpetual poorness as soon as she took her first breath. Not that she was not stubborn enough to let that weigh her down; but sometimes, that social status would come along and hit her harder than a frost troll.
Had she collapsed to the floor and begged; she would be speaking in different tongues now.
She doubted such a display from a piece of scale mail such as herself would net her any looks of pity from the Nords, however. It was not just Skyrim that was cold. Didn't help that she was shut down every chance she got when she did try to make friends, even acquaintances. After all, it would be rude of her to not reciprocate. After all this time - she let out a bitter snort - it was this pride of hers that came back to bite her in the arse.
Still... She'd rather be hated than be a nobody. Infamy at least netted her a chance to become recognised, and for some good Samaritan passer-by to step in and give her and her mother some pity treatment.
She didn't even know the gates to Talos came with a hefty price for a non-Nord, or so the guards had told her. Unless she wanted to end up in the worst prison barring the dungeons of Coldharbour, she didn't question them any further. These 'priestly rates' must be soaring these days considering the number of dead being brought through the front gates every week or so!
Still, nobody ever came to the docks, and every vowel she emitted travelled through people's left ears and straight out their right.
Gathering her bearings, she returned home with a pair of slouched shoulders, a snivel, and an eternal guilt wearing down upon her soul. Every day, the walls which encircled the Palace of Kings were beginning to look more like metal bars than anything else.
She swallowed deeply and twisted the rusty knob, the dank stench of sewage swivelling up her nostrils. "I'm back."
Not too far from her was the sickly visage of an elderly Argonian, resting on a bed and wrapped in a tattered cloth. It brought little comfort except for the unforgiving chill and dampness of Skyrim's tundra.
And despite that, despite all of that, she managed a smile which glittered as bright as gold. The girl all but ran to her side, soon ensnaring her arms around what was probably the only light of her life.
"Shahvee. My girl." Mother's hands climb the sharp ledges of Vee's face. "My beautiful girl."
"I didn't manage to get the Cure Disease potion. With the war going on, it was priced at a 'mark-up', so they say," she said glumly, eyes enveloping the cold, mouldy floor. "I am sorry."
Despite the morbidity of her revelations, Mother chuckled still, weak as it was. "Still hung up on that, huh?"
"Well, somebody has got to worry about family wellness in this household." Her gaze shifted away. "Doesn't help that the one who has it is not the least bit interested in helping herself out."
"Oh, I am worried," Mother replied. "Not nearly as much as I am worried for you. You don't need to work such exploitative hours for measly pay."
Vee shot at Mother her signature look of exasperation, eyes rolling upwards. "We are not having this conversation again."
Didn't do much to deter her, though.
"Look at me, Vee."
"Nope!"
Mother sighed. Her dear Vee took way too much from her and her mannerisms. Some good, mostly bad. Nonetheless, she pushed on.
"Scales are not supposed to turn yellow. I know you have not witnessed life beyond this Hist-forsaken hold, but I am telling you, if scales turn yellow, then you may have crossed an unbreakable threshold." Another tired, laboured breath. Here we go. "Shahvee... I can barely breathe properly, much less walk beyond the docks. You have to leave this place."
Her upper lips flared open, whipping her gaze at the other beastfolk. There's only so much a girl could bear after an already rough day. "Shut up."
"Please, Vee..."
"Shut up!" she screamed, her index raised - pointed straight at her. "Just, just shut up! Nobody's leaving!"
Vee's delicate hands pulled away, and she stood up straight, firm. She had to put her foot down.
"I am not leaving if you are not leaving - and nobody's going to die! I, I will go to Winterhold. I will get into the college - and, maybe-"
"But the bandits-"
"I don't care! I will kill them - I-I will kill all of them!"
"Vee... listen to yourself. You have not held a sword in your li-" She jerked her frame forward, hacking a particularly violent fit. Coming down soon after, she took in sharp, jagged breaths. "The next caravan - this one's accommodating to beastfolk - they will part next Sundas-"
Almost a woman possessed, she jerked forward and hacked so hard one would have her mistaken for trying to cough her lungs out. Her right hand flies to her mouth to catch the windfall, and what a batch it was. "Gods. That's a new record."
It was as if she never registered what Mother said at all.
"I am going to the market."
In exasperation, Mother fluttered her eyes shut. "Vee, please-"
"I can go five days without a meal - no, I have."
"Wait - don't do anything you may regret..."
It didn't matter what she thought was best for Vee. Vee can take care of herself just fine. She's been running ragged and on fumes for the past two days; what's another five more?
Without so much as a nod of acknowledgement, she dashed for the battered dining table and sundered open her pouch of septims, counting. Five, eight, ten...
It was a small thing, that purse.
Something snapped inside of her, something which held the foundations of the dam she welded up long ago. Her knees sank on the floor, and her hands covered her contorted face.
She wept.
"Strong, broad shoulders and calves... well-bruised skin and sizeable core..." The Nord paused for a swig of his tankard. She couldn't help but note how stereotypical he is in both mind and body. "I'd say you'd be fit right in with The Pack."
"Gods, with a name like ours, it's a wonder why anybody wouldn't simply recoil, turn tail and run at the sight of us."
"My ma have always said 'if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything.'," the man replied, turning. "You could learn a thing or two from her."
It's not every day someone so disadvantaged as her was presented an opportunity of this magnitude. In Skyrim's politically unstable climate, one would be hard-pressed to find any mercenary work well suited to any band of adventurers, no matter their stature. Unless you were acquainted with the Companions, the roads were too hostile, and the chances of being caught in the crossfire were too high.
Despite this, a handful of brave souls dared to break the mould and defy the will of Skyrim's brutality and pierce its broiling dark clouds. A band of such souls just so happened to settle in Windhelm as their temporary respite, during one of Shahvee's many weekend shifts.
"Ignore him. Our offer still stands." Brought back to reality, she observed the leader's arms folded neatly. He wielded a smirk so tantalisingly and infectiously confident one would mistake him of being a spoiled prince. As it stands, the light which gleamed from his steel chest plate was comparable to a lug of gold shining brightness worth a thousand suns. It could be sweet nothings for all she cared - and she still would have bought the act. "I am a firm believer that one learns best on the job."
One of his many Nord companions strutted to his side of the roundtable, and elbow on his compatriot's shoulder, he nodded. "Yeah. You would not believe the power behind his maces and grace in his swordplay. He cuts through enemies like butter."
The leader shot his companion a glare, scowling. "Enough buttering up, already!"
Collecting himself, the man walked up to her and placed one hand on her shoulder.
"But he is not necessarily wrong. I have years of combat experience under my belt, and counting. And I could not resist helping someone in need. We both stand to gain, regardless. I get the extra help - either a mighty combatant... a mule if you aren't up to snuff - and you gain the confidence to one day lead your own band of misfits."
Another - a dark elf sitting adjacent to his leader - frowned in protest.
"Come on, you expect a..." For reasons which escaped her, he flinched as soon as his words had gotten stuck in his throat. "A child like her to understand?"
Running out of ideas to advertise herself, she attempted her most extravagant pose yet - a lift of her ragged dress and a noble bow, followed swiftly by a firm fist on her chest. "I swear to you, I will follow your every word to the letter! Through rain or blizzard, I will not be a burden."
He slammed his tankard on the table and cackled something sinister - a laugh so haughty it could only have come from a drunken Northerner. "That there - that there's the gumption the youth is missing nowadays! No safety this, no parental admission that!"
A bit lacking in motor skill, he stood from his chair and clasped Shahvee's shoulder.
"We will make a man out of you yet."
And so, the following morning, she flipped the proverbial bird at her previous employers of one Hollyfrost Farm Estates, one Candlehearth Hall and one East Empire Company, and for better or worse, departed Windhelm for the very first time.
"Gods, your posture is a state. You can barely lift a blade."
It was one of many similar remarks Shahvee received during the first few weeks of being with The Pack. She thought she had her swordplay nailed down after so many years of training with a wooden one in secret. She thought wrong.
Another swing against the tree branch. It barely managed a chip.
Her trainer's left leg tapped in impatience. "No, no! Again!"
She never thought she'd be happy seeing Ulrald intervening in her training, but here she was. So conditioned was she receiving remarks which bordered calling her a greenhorn that this was a sure blessing.
"Stop it. This clearly isn't going anywhere, and she looks dog tired. I'd rather not have anybody here drop dead if I can help it."
"But Ulrald," the dark elf protested. "I know you were drunk, but you should have realised our quests are time-sensitive. At this rate..."
Nord culture - the romanticised version - was such that a handshake was as good as a signed contract. It does have its perks. It reduced the paperwork and got things done a lot faster. As can be seen, not exercising prudence would inevitably lead to scenarios such as this.
The Nord sighed. "I know that. Girl. Follow me."
It would do better to know to never test a Nord's temper.
He soon found a suitable place to settle - a shrivelled stump. Wiping off the snow, he motioned for her to scoot beside him.
Brr. The cold never did agree with her scaleless rump.
"Are you so sure of your body's strength that you would forsake your body's capabilities of being a rogue?" Escaping from her daydream, she turned towards him. "Your hands barely wrap around the hilt, much less able to wield a sword."
"I know that. Maybe... maybe you can give me a dagger to play with."
"The one tied to our ankles?"
"Yes! Yes. That'd be perfect."
"Again, you have never seen combat before. If I were a greenhorn I would use the weapon that kept enemies further away from me."
An awkward silence reigned the air surrounding them. She learnt from years of working experience that talking back during a lecture usually netted an earful and less gold in her pocket by the rise of dusk.
"Life ain't like your bedtime stories, girl. We are dealing with real people, real monsters, real death. You don't get another chance."
"I..." No good excuse could excuse this. It'd better if she said it straight. "It's all I have left."
His stare seemed to last longer than winter solstices. He shut his eyes for a moment before letting out a long, heavy sigh.
"Fine. If you are so insistent, I will allow it. But your training will leave you sagged as a corpse, and our quests even more so. You will be faced with bandits, vampires and the like. We are professionals, after all."
Yes! She nodded in earnest. "I am."
"Alright, then."
His sword sang from his sheath. Settling both arms on the hilt, he narrowed his eyes on the girl.
"Ready your blade."
"Girl, I would normally err on the side of caution if I were you. You lean too far into berserker territory for my liking."
"Do you want me to stop, Ulrald?"
"I never said it was a bad thing."
The first few weeks were rocky to put it lightly.
The dynamic of the group had been shaken to its very foundation because of their plus one, so much so even extermination jobs had somehow posed a challenge. Of course, this was to be expected, and so was the lower stream of income. Less risky jobs, less chance of mucking up.
But she couldn't be a liability forever.
So on a particularly safe gig, she tried something new.
She tossed herself headfirst into the battle - in a fashion only Nords on the verge of death could do - and let her instinct take the reins. It wasn't only risky, it was stupid. Some awkward combination of rogue and warrior. They split them into two different skillsets for a reason.
But it worked.
Against all odds, she made it out of her first battle using this tactic wielding only a handful of cuts. She still wished she wore a different skin, but physically, the Hist paid dividends.
Didn't stop her from receiving an earful though. Still, she worked out a way to break the wedge lock between the group. If she was the first one to make contact, then the rest won't have to play around her. Win-win.
As a celebration of a job well done of their most recent job, they waltzed into the mead hall and drunk their sorrows away.
"Now are you going to take a swig of that or what?"
She went back to regarding her tankard, face scrunched up.
"Tastes like piss water, doesn't it? It's an acquired taste. Let's just say, around these parts… we take what we can get."
Wiping away the foam from his lips, he took in another swig, slamming his drink on the table. Poor nails are barely keeping it together.
"And some days, we drink to forget."
Yet another swig, and a great, hearty burp to follow suit.
Man. She was so confidently outclassed by their foolhardy masculinity. Her head squeaked, squeaked, squeaked back at her tankard. It was beginning to look like bile by the second. Deep breaths, nice and easy. She swung open her eyelids.
She was ready!
Guuuuulp.
Hmm.
Oh.
Oh no.
Guh.
Bleh, bleurgh.
In the midst of the rowdiness which surrounded her, she heard the jangle of laughter.
It was any other day for The Pack. Falmer extermination job, the usual. The Reach had been subject to numerous kidnappings of the underground variety of late, and it was high time someone put a stop to them.
So goes the explanation of their presence in a Falmer-infested cave in the middle of nowhere. Not a soul to see 4 miles before it, longer still from even a modest homestead. Only the soft blue of the glowing mushrooms protruded their senses. Aside from running water and occasional bats, there was not a soul to hear or see.
All in all, the perfect storm.
A few minutes into the cave and a fair few started to twitch. Arms gripped around their arsenal… ready, waiting.
A beat. Then, the tell-tale clicking, of claws sowing the mouldy ground and breaths that spewed something reviled.
"There they are!" one cried, pointing upward. There they were.
It was as close to a mob as you could get. Three dozen of them, staring at them down from a ravine, with eyes of malice and weapons laced with bitterness bearing upon them.
They bore their fangs. Their muscles tensed.
The Pack responded in kind.
"No Nord backs down from a fight!" Ulrald roared. "Come on! We can take them. They have ears for eyes!"
Raising his axe as a motion of challenge, he crowed. "FOR RUIN!"
"FOR RUIN!"
They charged. And, after what seemed like an eternity, the sound of clashing metal sung through the air.
For every strike they swung, she dodged and countered with twice the ferocity. Bones were shattered and all matter of flesh and tears flung about. A whirlwind of blood and bone.
It was after her seventh kill did alarm bells start to ring. This cave was too expansive and deep for it not to be the size of a hive.
Her fears were not unfounded.
Out of the corner of her eye, a finger points, trembling: "For Talos' sake! Shadowmasters!"
From the Falmer flank, the shimmering glow of sickly staffs. Balls of mist bellowing from their oculars. Mages.
Gods. Regular chumps they could deal with, but battlemages were a little outside their pedigree. It was not impossible, but…
No. Rule of steel. No doubt must come to one's mind should they desire victory. There had to be something she could do. She was a berserker. Her job was to divert the enemy's attention to her. That means she can take attention away from… that's it.
"Ulrald!" she cried. The man turned. "I can cut a path through them! Don't let them cut my path short!"
"RIGHT!" He raised his axe. A universal motion for all The Pack to listen. "Boys! You heard her!"
And so they did exactly that.
She was their one-man apocalypse. If any of them got near her, it would usually end with their heads rolling on the ground.
But the mortal body had its limits.
They did not stop coming. Wave after wave after wave. It soon became clear they were ruefully unprepared after the last string of successes.
It was never supposed to get this bad. Trying their damnednest did not mean squat if the opponent had numbers.
Then, the cries of people's names… their shields clattering and their wills shattering. A house of cards, crashing…
She saw the writing on the wall. And within her soul, resonated acceptance. Some day she knew it would come to this. She just didn't know it'd be so soon.
"Ulrald?" she shouted.
"Yes?"
"Let me take care of them. You go. I will shake them off."
"What?" Double take. "What?! A-Are you insane?!"
"You have—"
"This is not up for discussion, Vee! First rule of The Pack. We don't leave our own!"
"Can it?! Put aside that stubborn pride of yours. Just once! You have 9 good men in your care. But they have hundreds, thousands of their own. You can't change reality. Either I die, or you all will."
A moment of pause for the Nord. He tried to find holes in her reasoning, anything. Something. But he couldn't alter something as simple as this. Unless they got moving, they were going to die here. So… despite going against everything he stood for as a Nord…
"Fine."
A smile more bitter than poison ivy.
"But swear to me, Vee. Swear to me you will make it."
That's all she could ask for.
"I will."
"Alright. Alright," he said. "Men! Fall back! Vee will cover us!"
Just as every bit reluctant as he was, they left. The Pack always looked out for their own. It didn't matter how.
Soon the sound of wooden splinters clattering on the ground faded… and only orichalcum and Falmer remained.
What she was left with after their parting was a numbers game. Her and whose army?
But. She'd be damned if she didn't try and level that ratio. But soon, she started getting tired. Soon enough the strikes she was dodging with ease seemed faster than before. Soon enough she started to feel cuts and slices against her scales, blood lining down her form.
Soon, she started making mistakes.
And then… an arrow came her way.
It was fast, she saw it coming.
She simply did not have the strength to react in time.
And it buried, dead on, into her centre mass. It was as if the whole world froze. She couldn't move. Out of shock or whatever they laced within the tip, she didn't know. All she knew, that while she was in that state of deep, primal panic, was that she could not move.
Try as she might, this poison was a nasty one indeed.
Not being able to take any more, she fell on one knee, mouth frothing – physically manifested pigheadedness.
But, like a titan, she soon fell on the ground with a resonated thud and a kick of dust.
This was the end.
She was glad she managed to trade her life in for another ten. Her life was forfeit from the start. At least now, it was worth something to someone.
It was after the first few minutes she knew something was off. You'd think they'd be finally rid of her after felling so many of their comrades. As retribution, revenge, anything.
No. All she heard was footsteps advancing to her. A Falmer no-name. Something expendable.
Its hands grovelled onto her frame. She felt saliva trickle onto her hip.
Then, without ceremony, it threw her broken body onto its shoulder, and turned tail, venturing further into the caves.
It clicked.
An unyielding dread gripped her heart in a vice; dread settled in the deepest, darkest pits of her soul.
A fate worse than death.
When did time begin and when did it end? How long had she been chained like a dog, grovelling on the smarmy dirt and reeking the stench of maggot eaten flesh?
She lost count of the number of times she was subject to yet another one of their Warmongers. Spell after spell, poison after poison. Their resident test subject, of which she was prized above all else. Argonians made for resilient and long-lasting puppets, after all. Each time she had been unravelled, she was stitched back together using only needle pins and crotchets.
Is it so much to ask that she finally died? Is it so much that it ended? Will that damned Tree of hers at least grant her that?!
Pain was her only companion now, a constant one. Twisted to where she would become delirious if it went away, even just for a moment.
Was she losing her sanity? Perhaps. Did she particularly care? Not really.
Weeks turned to months.
And months, years.
Fighting. In the corridors. Down the labyrinth they called a fortress. What poor intrepid soul decided to wander in here?
No… focus. She wouldn't let them have the pleasure of taking another one.
Barely lucid to make actual sentences, just enough to make people understand: coming here was a death wish. Her voice, torn as it may be, was all she had. It may not win any awards any time soon, but it got the point across.
Then silence reigned as fast as it came, but it did not stop her from trying. Damn those skulking elves to hell. Torture didn't matter to her anymore. She's endured an eternity of pain and suffering here, what's one more?
If she could save just one person from this place…
But… she soon heard, for the first time in a long time… words.
"Captain! We found someone..."
"Yes? Oh... oh gods. Where is that Elf? Melandil! Get her back to Solutide!"
Ooh. Another isekai. Haven't been in the game for a while, and this is all I have to show for it? Goddamn.
Anyway, if you interested for more, leave a review. It always helps.
Part 2 should come soon.
