The world was clad in the shadows of midnight. Stars shone like countless diamonds, illuminating what little of the world in their icy glare as a figure stalked through the freshly fallen snow. It was on the hunt, searching for a certain kind of prey that only it's kind could track successfully. As it enters a forest, it hears laughter, the kind of laughter that is so often accompanied by a successful raid. Soon the orange glow of the campfire comes into view.
Shrinking into the shadows it watches as the bandits laugh and brag about their mastery of the butchering, "Hah, those mages didn't know what hit them!" an Orc roared in mirth before downing a tankard of ale, "Too bad they all had to fight back, would have been nice to have some sport right about now..." a slim wiry man replied. "Well, you could always hunt down that girl if you're so eager!" another bandit yelled through jagged teeth, with that jest they group started laughing again. From the sounds the figure could hear about five men, an Orc and a few other men ranging from the far west of High Rock to Cyrodiil itself.
The hunter smirked, it had already taken down one of their number on the way.
It circled the campsite, staying in the shadows.
One of the raiders starts to shudder, he moves closer to the fire thinking it was the cold, not realizing death was watching him. "Hey shouldn't Erikur have come back by now?" a dirty man asked.
"Dumb bastard probably went and took to whoring!" came a bawdy retort, the group chuckled before realizing they weren't alone as the chill of primal fear began to run through their bodies. "Erikur you out there?" another bandit asked the icy air, the cold offered no answer only shadows and swirling snow.
Quickly they drew lots and one of their number was sent out to see what was ruining their celebration, the unlucky soul was a messy haired Breton. He began walking away from the warm glow and soon found himself surrounded by cold pillars that resembled trees. As he walked through those cold woods he started to feel something icy clutch at the base of his spine and crawl up into his brain, he shudders and puts it out of his mind as the cold.
The marauder stops and looks around, seeing nothing he turns to walk away and freezes in his tracks. Standing there in the snow was a large frame with a hairy silhouette, he slowly draws his sword thinking it was a troll before realizing a Cyrodillic Troll would have already attacked him, cautiously he speaks, "What manner of fiend are you?".
The shape moves forwards into the moonlight, the cold light glinting off of worn plate and grimy chain. It then speaks, "I'm a hunter of men much like yourself." The northern accent rings the man's head, the chill hand of fear still clutching his heart as the thing continues, "And I've been sent to look for someone...a girl in fact, figured you and your friends could take me to her, but it looks like I'll have to find her myself."
The Breton smirks, "So you're a mercenary then?" the smirk disappeared when he's answered by a cold mirthless laugh, a laugh he usually made when the gang would go out to pillage.
He charges, sword in two hands ready to cut down that fiendish thing, ''Oh, how they will tell tales of this!' he thought before swinging down. The fiend moves and with the brutal grace of a sabrecat, the fiend's hands finds his throat and snatches him off the ground. It was over in a flash, the fiend's claw ran the raider though, he sinks to the ground after the fiend lets go of it's prey.
Choking on blood he asked his killer, "What are you?" The beast looks down and replies,
"Hjalmar.".
The other man's eyes go wide before fading, his soul going to his gods, as Hjalmar turns and stalks back to the camp, his grim business not complete.
So turns out Skyrim's Nords are NOT like Conan of Cimmeria or the Deathdealer. Well they are in my head and this IS a fanfic...one I had to go back and fix.