Before they settled in for the night, something called Skathi. No words mortal ears could hear, but it was just as well; it was more an indistinct summons than any words. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was magicking, but there was something that drew her to the burned down house.

It was around sunset when she went out. Everything looked good at sunset, even the towns activities. Now, they were winding down for the night, with parents guiding their children home and the smell of fresh baked goods to coax them. It put Skathi the mood for apple pie. She hoped there was some freshly baked at the inn.

The outsider was on the road to the burned house when a hand took her by the shoulder and held her back. It was a guard, stiff like oak. Skathi was agitated by it, so broke away.

"You don't wanna go there," he warned.

"What's the story with the burned down house?" she inquired.

"It's bad luck to talk about that place," he quaked, "Jarl's been looking for someone who ain't superstitious. Be lookin' for a fool, if you ask me."

What possible reason could it be that this house was subject to such superstition? Had others heard the call? If so, then they refused it for fear of meeting some hidden threat in the rubble. What happened to this house that such fear could stir in the hearts of the common folk?

With that in mind, Skathi turned to her right and went to the jarl's conveniently nearby longhouse. Entering it, she found it not as prestigious as Dragonsreach. It was smaller and the wood was less refined, though that was surely the mood around here. This was the boondocks in the shadow of the capital in Solitude.

The jarl herself, Idgrod Ravencrone as she was called, was the old woman on the dais. Despite her age, or perhaps because of it, she had the feeling of a hawk preying on a mouse. Wrinkled skin and greying hair failed to hide her wise and terrible aura that radiated all the way from the doorway.

"So, life has brought you to Morthal, and to me," Jarl Idgrod remarked on the outsider's approach, "What purpose this serves, we will no doubt see. Welcome."

"I hear you want someone to look into that house fire," Skathi stated, a hand on her sword. She meant it to mean she was interested, but immediate realized it might be misinterpreted as a threat to knock it off.

"Hroggar's house fire?" Idgrod croaked, "He lost his wife and daughter in the blaze. My people believe it to be cursed now. Who am I to gainsay them?"

The outsider needed information. "What does Hroggar say happened?" she inquired.

"Hroggar blames his wife for spilling bear fat in the fire," Idgrod recounted, "Folks think he set the fire himself."

"With his wife and child inside?" Skathi exclaimed. What monster would burn is own family alive?

"Lust can make a man do the unthinkable," Idgrod stated, "The ashes were still warm when he pledged himself to Alva."

The words on lust resonated in the outsider. Something came out from a place she could hardly remember, but a primal rage took hold and informed her to seek revenge for the dead. She figured this was just what anyone would do, but something nagged at her, saying this meant something more.

"And you haven't arrested him?" Skathi asked.

"On rumor and gossip?" Idgrod croaked, "No. But you, a stranger, might find the truth for us. Sift through the ashes that others are too fearful to touch. See what they tell you. Should you prove him guilty or innocent, I will reward you."

"Very well," Skathi replied and left the longhouse.

The outsider went back to the house to search it. The building had hardly a wall still standing, the wood turned grey like ash, as was the ground around it. It was as if the life had been drained from this place, which was close to the truth of it. Save for the fact that Skathi found a specter in the corner.

The ghost of a little girl, colored like pale blue glass, was stood in the ruins of the house. At its sight, Skathi was spooked and jumped back, drawing her dagger before questioning its effectiveness. On a second looked, she seemed mostly oblivious to the outsider, so she sheathed her blade.

"Who are you?" Skathi asked.

"Helgi," the ghost girl replied without any sense she was dead, "But father says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. Are you a stranger?"

"Is Hroggar your father?" Skathi asked.

"You know him?" Helgi responded with a question, "He made my favorite dolly, but I can't find her. Are you sure you aren't a stranger?"

"No, I'm a friend," the outsider stated, "Do you know what happened to your house?"

She reacted to that. "The smoke woke me up," the ghost girl trembled, "It was hot, and I was scared, so I hid. Then it got cold and dark. I'm not scared anymore." She paused before saying, "But I'm lonely. Will you play with me?"

"If I do, will you tell me who lit the fire?" Skathi bargained. She hoped this would work, as she had hardly even seen a child in years. She hoped she still knew what they liked and how they acted.

"Okay!" Helgi cheered, "Let's play hide and seek. You find me and I'll tell you. We have to wait for nighttime though. The other is playing too, and she can't come out until then."

Skathi was worried. "The other one?" she asked in dread, "What do you mean?"

"I can't tell you," Helgi quaked, "She might hear me. She's so close." She continued, "If you find me first, I can tell you."

And the ghost girl was gone. Skathi was upset at the possibilities this meant. Whoever else was playing hide and seek with them knew Helgi was a ghost, which might have been anyone if the townsfolks' reaction was anything to go on. Still, they might be whoever burned the house down and killed her. She would need to approach this carefully.

But first, apple pie.

The pain in her arm was enough to tell Rena she was still alive. She'd landed on part of her arm in the fall and surely the dead don't feel pain. Surely, if she were dead, she wouldn't feeling a ringing in her head, a spine that felt like gravel and a thigh that felt like it exploded. All in all, it felt like she was dragged for five miles for ten minutes.

A sudden bump woke her woke her up, practically reawakening her wounds. She sat up, steadying herself with her unbroken arm, and saw her situation. She was on a cart filled with the injured. She tried to look around, but her hurt to move even her eyes. Her arm soon grew sore, so she propped herself up on the side of the cart, being the closest to the front.

She saw the soldiers in pain before her. They looked like they were trying to sleep, but too in pain to reach it. Tears painted faces so young to this world that they may stay another forty years if the wounds and scars of this battle don't kill them. Even the barest look around Rena could accomplish revealed there was far more than one cart.

Beside her was the Dunmer that gave them the Jagged Crown, Ravani Faren, also on the front of the cart. She was more successfully unconscious. Rena wondered how someone just as old as the other soldiers came to sleep so fast. She didn't know what motivated her to even join the Stormcloaks in the first place, but she could figure why she betrayed them.

But something a little more pressing was a Khajiit in steel plate sitting on the edge of the cart. He wore no uniform, so he couldn't be one of the Legion. His presence was bizarre, thinking about how there were probably hundreds dead and this guy is just here.

"Oh, that's Mariqa," a familiar voice explained, "He kinda saved your life."

Riding alongside the cart was Ansgar. Rena didn't understand his concern, but when she noticed that one of the injured was the Orc often seen with him, it made sense. She wondered if he was concerned for herself and the other soldiers.

"You're awake, it seems," Ansgar remarked.

Hearing his voice was more painful than normal. "What happened?" she asked, despite every word being laced hurting to get out.

He sighed. "I ordered a retreat," he explained, "When the Stormcloaks reached the keep, the battle was lost. I was the only officer that was confirmed alive, so I led the Legion in full retreat." He added, "We're on our way to Falkreath to recover."

Rena couldn't help but address the obvious. "This is partially your fault, you know?"

Ansgar couldn't help but grimace. "I wasn't sure what I was thinking when I said that," he stated.

"It wasn't a good idea."

"I know!"

In hindsight, his declaration of "They fight for Skyrim, but we fight for all of Tamriel," wasn't wise. They were in Skyrim, fighting alongside Nords that most likely were born here. They most likely had trepidations fighting the Stormcloaks that weren't soothed by Ansgar's words. For all she knew, Tribune Barsotti didn't say the right thing.

And Barsotti was dead. That still didn't grieved Rena. She seemed like a good person, cut short by a sword. This was the second time she lost a commanding officer in the week. What sort of curse was following Rena? A dragon attacked her post, the leader of the opposition escaped on her watch, the attempt to capture him again failed miserably, a dragon attacked again, and she lost a crucial battle in the war. With Daedric prince had it in for her?

But something else crossed her mind. "Why didn't you use your Shout?" she asked Ansgar.

The captain grimaced. "I have my reasons," he stated.

"The Empire would like to hear them," Rena replied.

Ansgar sighed. "I was taught that my gift wasn't to be used for war and glory," he explained, "I vowed never to use it against anyone except enemies of Skyrim. As much as it pains me, the Stormcloaks are part of Skyrim, so I won't use it against them."

Fair enough. His thoughts were of his honor. Rena still wondered how the battle may have turned out if he used the Shout. Barsotti may be still alive, along with the many a Legionnaire. She wasn't sure honor would be enough to explain it to the dead why they won't they see their families for a long time.

When the survivors reached Falkreath, it was safe to heal their injuries. The healers went around the converted hospice of an inn with potions and magics but could only do so much. The Orc Ansgar so favored was taking to recovery quite badly. He apparently had a seriously leg injury that had progressed to a point where treatment was difficult. He might not be able to march again.

Rena, meanwhile, was told that he coming to consciousness was a good thing. If she slept any longer, she could've died. They tried to give her a potion, but she threw back up. They applied restoration spells to her head before giving her another and she kept it down this time. She was told she could sleep now.

But something that kept her up was rumors. It was believed that Stormcloaks would use their momentum from the capture of Whiterun to launch an attack on Falkreath. Others thought they would want to secure the rest of Whiterun Hold before expanding, but that didn't dissuade their fears. The able Legionnaires were even preparing to bolt at dawn's first light.

But still, Rena needed to sleep. She found the impromptu barracks they made from the Jarl's longhouse and plopped down onto a bedroll. Her injuries were still stinging, but she was too tired to bother and slept like a rock.

A rock prepared to bolt when the river arrives.

Skathi usually never spent long eating, as the frozen tundra and mountain range was home to enough predators that feast was unwise. However, she was having apple pie for dinner and wanted to savor this dish she had gone so long without. It was the sunset when she started and night when she finished. This was special.

When she noticed the dark skies and moons, she realized Helgi was waiting on her and bolted to the ruined house. She would soon learn who this other who knew she was a ghost, and perhaps her murderer. This was a truly strange endeavor, but Skathi being Dragonborn sort of trumped that. She was most likely at the start of her new and bizarre life.

In the ashen house, Skathi found Helgi was gone. She had not reappeared since their first meeting and it worried Skathi. Something must have happened for this to come about. She searched around the ruin, but there were so few places anyone could hide. Desperate, she ran behind the house in search of anything and was shocked by what she saw.

A woman in strange, seductive armor stood over a coffin, small as if to accommodate a child with a shovel. Her face was unnaturally contorted and feral, almost like she was a beast in human skin. Her eyes were a glowing orange, like fire.

Her fanged teethed grit as she threw the shovel aside and held her hand out to expel a flood of monstrous red energy. It swarmed around Skathi like a wave of misery. It felt like the life was leaving her, like she was drowning above water and she could still move.

Skathi would not want to die like this, so she drew her sword and attempted to charge the strange woman. The energies slowed her, like wadding through water. By the time she got close enough to stab her opponent, she had drawn her own sword. There was barely any time to block her first swing.

Lydia had been teaching her thane how to use the sword more proficiently. There were few swords in the wilderness, and she was more used to the bow anyway. With her return to civilization, her housecarl had figured some instruction would improve her chances in a fight. Still, she was hardly a master, not even adept at the craft.

But then again, neither was the stranger. When Skathi swung her sword at her, she blocked, but it was weak, and the edge of her own blade was pushed into her face. She stubbled back, a gash in her face, dazed, and the energies faded. Seeing the opportunity, Skathi lunged her sword into the stranger's chest. The stranger fell, dead, her burning eyes extinguished.

Her opponent dead, Skathi turned her attention to the child sized coffin.

"You found me!" Helgi's voice came from the box, "Laelette was trying to find me too, but I'm glad you found me first."

Hearing a child's voice from a coffin was terrifying. Skathi had rarely seen a coffin in life, maintaining their unsettling effect in her eyes. The child's voice made it worse. Out respect for the dead, took the shovel and began burying the box again.

"Laelette!" a man's voice came from behind her, "She's dead!"

Skathi turned around and saw a Nord man with sad eyes. He looked around thirty years old, but lines and wrinkled aged him another ten. He seemed in mourning. He ran to the dead body of the stranger and look it over.

"Ysmir's beard!" he exclaimed, "She's, she's a vampire!"

So, that's what she was. Skathi realized this man knew the stranger, so figured he might have some useful knowledge of her. Her vampirism being a surprise cast some doubt on that. Still, it was better than nothing.

"What can you tell me about Laelette?" she inquired.

"She's, was my wife," the sad Nord stated, "I thought she ran off to join the Stormcloaks." He began to cry, "Ah! My poor Laelette!"

Skathi was discomforted going down to line of questions but need to continue. "Did you notice anything strange before she left?" she asked.

"She began to spend a lot more time with Alva," he recalled, "Yet just a week before, she despised her. In fact, the night before she disappeared, she was supposed to meet Alva. Alva told me she never showed up." Tears began to leave the corners of his eyes and surrounded their bottoms. "I never got to tell her goodbye," he cried.

Skathi could only come to one grime conclusion. "I think they may have met after all," she speculated.

Alva was a vampire. Whatever her game was, it was surely foul to include a man's wife behind his back and corrupt her like that. There was probably something at foot.

"You think Alva," the sad Nord pondered, "but that means." His eyes grew wide. "Ye gods! You think Alva is a vampire?"

"It's a possibility we can't ignore," Skathi grimly muttered.

"No! You're wrong," he barked back, choking down tears, "You must be wrong. Laelette may have met her fate out in the marsh. I refuse to believe Alva had anything to do with this. There is no way you can prove it to the jarl."

He left her at the burial, saying, "I hope Alva is not what you think."

Left with a half-buried coffin and a woman's corpse, Skathi was back to burying the box. She hoped Alva was not a vampire as well. It meant she would have to kill her. A creature like that cannot be allowed to live, feeding on flesh and blood. Thinking about made her hands shake, but she was unsure why.

After the coffin was back in the ground, Skathi took a plank and carved "Helgi" onto it, putting in just above the disheveled dirt. One grave dug, she took to burying the woman she killed and marking her grave as well. It took no pride in the deaths she caused.

Two grave dug, wooden planks for makeshift tombstones, Skathi left them there to continue her investigation. There was only one way to prove Alva was a vampire and that was to check her house for something, anything. A corpse, a journal, a confession, anything. It was illegal, and most likely difficult to do without attention, so she would need to prepare.

Six arrows. When Jeanne came to, she discovered that she had six arrows in her torso from the Legion archer and a slash from her shoulder to her stomach from Balgruuf's sword. It was shocking news. How few could say this happened to them? She honestly didn't register that she was so rent. Perhaps her old habits had found new ways to appear in her life.

She found her armor from the battle. She could point to every place an arrow pierced her body. It was horrifying to find a map of every wound that should've killed her. This cuirass wasn't going to be of much use anymore, nor did Jeanne want to have it repaired. This was a reminder of how close she came to death; no one just wants one of those.

In the meantime, Jeanne chose to wear a set of robes typically used by the monks that mended her. Of course, they didn't hide who she was to others. Everyone could tell she was "the Breton of One Arrow Short" and "the Slayer of Greater", whatever they meant. All she knew was that many found her some sort of legend.

She didn't feel like a legend. Jeanne did as she was ordered to claimed Whiterun for Ulfric, as bloody a business as this was. Perhaps so many arrows piercing her body but not killing her was of note, but she felt no pride in that. Perhaps being the one to fight Balgruuf was important, but she felt shame in that. What she had done had brought war and death to Whiterun, not make it a better place. Only the townsfolk could say if she had done the right thing.

To Jeanne's understanding, there was a feast in Dragonsreach which she was invited to. If she was asked to an event such as this it was because she was notable enough to earn the attention, and it would be inappropriate to decline, so she chose to accept it. If she were to decline such an invitation in High Rock, she would be a fool in the eyes of the court and to have shown disdain to the host, so she didn't want to see how they would react in Skyrim.

Her approach to the keep was noted by others, guards and citizens included. The guards were fellow Stormcloaks and gave her signs of respect. The citizens were mixed, some spitting as she passed and others showing their appreciation. She noticed a lot of the citizens that took displeasure with her weren't Nords. She could've been seeing what she thought, or it was just as she thought, and she was a tool against anyone who wasn't born Nord.

When she entered Dragonsreach, Jeanne was met by an old woman of snarky disposition. "Hold there, little girl," she barked at the Breton, "You won't be showing up to the feast looking like a monk."

Jeanne looked at the woman with a frown. She had dealt with crotchety old women before and they weren't fun. "Then what do you suggest I wear?" she retorted.

The old woman took a satchel from the side of the room and handed it over. "Here," she frowned, "A gift from your Stormcloak friends."

Within the satchel was hide armor with a bear-head helm. Jeanne understood this as an officer's uniform. All these accolades attributed to her were amazing, unbelievable. She wasn't sure she had earned these things, but she would accept them for now.

She donned the armor, thanks to the maids' sense of modesty around her, and climbed the steps to the room where she decided Whiterun's fate. The court was full Stormcloaks, warriors, officers and allies. They cheered at her approach and she felt flattered by their acclaim.

Jarl Vignar himself, at the head of the table beside Galmar, stood and raised his drink to say, "Hail to Jeanne, who would only fall to nine arrows! Who fought Balgruuf the Greater and won! Who is now a true daughter of Skyrim!"

The guests cheered as she took a seat. So, that's what the titles meant. She was sure how you get "the Breton of the One Arrow Short" out of six arrows instead of nine. Perhaps someone miscounted or exaggerated, and it was considered a sign Talos was with her. Numbers and all were significant to those who can't count.

The feast was grand, with much ripe meat and fine mead. There was cheer at a battle hard fought and Ulfric's war was going well. Jeanne saw many people of significance there, those she learned were of Clan Gray-Mane and Battle-Born, merchants of high regard, and warriors that fought in this battle.

But still, Vignar was distracted. Jeanne noticed that the new Jarl was agitated by something, but nothing that was there. She could only assume he was expecting someone, but she couldn't think of any think. All his clan was there, save a son his family missed. The rich of the city was there, though they did have to throw someone out for lording his false wealth around some of the women there. There wasn't anyone Jeanne could think of, but she believed they were important.

Suddenly, the doors were thrown open with calamitous anger. The hall quickly grew silent at the approach of a small band of warriors. They were mostly Nord, garbed in numerous forms of armor, but at the front was the old warrior in ornate armor that chased Jeanne off during the battle. She shrunk in her seat, but they ignored her. They went right up to the jarl instead.

He seemed pleased. "Ah, my friends!" he greeted, "You are far from fashionably late, but I don't care. You will always welcome in Dragonsreach."

Their leader didn't say a word. Instead, he brought his axe down on the table, right between Vignar and Galmar. He let go.

"You have brought grief to Whiterun, Vignar," the leader growled, "You ate in our halls, but you didn't know we would defend this city and its people from invasion. You told us to join the Stormcloaks in battle, but we defended our hall instead. We won't join this war."

Vignar nodded. "But you would wish war between us, Kodlak?" he asked.

The old warrior glared. "For my neighbors," he stated, "For Whiterun. Would you?"

The Gray-Mane sighed. "As Jarl," he replied as he took the axe, "I go to war for my people."

Kodlak smiled. "So, will you join our feast?" Vignar asked.

The older warrior smirked. "No," he replied, "Not now."

And the warriors left, a member of the Gray-Manes even following them out. Jeanne wasn't sure what that was about. She hoped this wouldn't be an issue in the future.

The rest of the night was full of feasting and drink, but Jeanne couldn't find cheer. She almost died. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. The moment she was perhaps destined to have came and went without issue. She wasn't sure if that meant she was lucky or that death wouldn't find her on the battlefield. There were probably people that deserved it more. A little bit of the piss water they called mead might fix that thought.

"Dammit," Skathi cursed, punctuating another failure.

Lockpicking was rarely a skill she had ever practiced. A stubborn chest or a locked door where there might be items of interest, she would try to crack them, but they were few and far between. She would more often abandon locks she spent what she thought was too long on them, depending on how many wrenches were lost and how fast in the endeavor. So far, she was considering giving up, as she was six wrenches out of eight spent.

And that was only one reason, as guards patrolled the night. If they saw her breaking in, they would surely put a sword to her throat. She did not explain her situation though, lacking any trust in them that most citizens would have. Or perhaps they did not, but that was irrelevant to Skathi's feelings. She also had distrust for the jarl, but that was tempered by the knowledge she had of her; she just distrusted anyone called a jarl on instinct.

Skathi tried a seventh time to unlock the door. Tumblers clicked and scrapped against the pick and wrench. The sound of the first pin sliding into place was as familiar as your face in the mirror at this point. Second pin followed, though the third had seemingly disappeared again. A little finagling and she found it was already in place, forgetting it had seemingly broken before she had even seen the lock. Fourth was almost impossible to perfect nail down, but it still found itself where it should be.

The fifth was surely the biggest bane out of all. Three times, it failed to reach into place. Three times, the wrench would break from the strain. With little patience left, she tried again, this time in complete meditation. High Hrothgar's serenity allowed her to unlock a peace she thought impossible, if she only calmed herself enough. Without thought, the last pin was put in place and Skathi entered the house.

The outsider snuck through the door and spotted a man in bed, deep in sleep. She left him alone, even though she believed he was Hroggar. His punishment would come someday. Perhaps in Coldharbour.

Skathi found this was rarely out of the ordinary. One room, a pot of uncooked feed on the hearth, cabinets and the odd chest abound, an extra bed by the door. It seemed to lack anything unique, save the stairway to a basement. The outsider figured if there was ever a place to hide something, be it a body or other illegal things to have, it would be down there.

The basement seemed an unremarkable room, save the open coffin in the center of the room. Candelabras set around the box were the sole source of light in this dead place. Skathi felt if she stared long enough, the shadows would give way to bloodstains on the walls and floor.

Inside the coffin was red leather journal. Reading it, Skathi's suspicions and more were confirmed. Alva was vampire, turned by someone named Movarth. She had seduced Hroggar to guard her coffin in the daytime, even before the arson. She had turned Laelette to sate herself and keep as a handmaiden, spreading the rumor she left to join the war herself. However, Laelette killed Hroggar's family, not Alva. What's more, she developed a fixation on Helgi, even trying to turn her and botched it.

What was even worse was their plan. Movarth planned to turn the guards to vampirism and use them with the might of their coven to take Morthal of themselves. This was more than neighborhood scandal; this was a coup. The jarl would need to know.

Skathi quickly snuck back out the front door and bolted down the walkways. The guards either did not notice or did not know she came from someone else's house. They could not stop her anyway, as her stride was built up over the years to outrun an elk when she was hungry. It did not take long to reach the jarl's longhouse, though she stubbled as she approached the dais.

"Is Hroggar innocent or not?" Idgrod asked, unphased by the running Nord.

Skathi took a breath. "Alva set the fire," she reported, simplifying things for the sake of brevity, "She's the murderer."

Idgrod raised an eyebrow. "Alva?" she questioned, "Didn't think she had it in her."

"Actually, she's a vampire," the outsider stated, "She planned to enslave the town."

"I assume you have proof?" the jarl requested, "Can't go making accusations like that without proof."

"I have Alva's journal," Skathi stated, showing her the incrimination page.

"So, it's true," Idgrod remarked, bile at the edge of her lips, "That traitorous bitch!" She looked up at the outsider, "Morthal owes you a dept."

She took out a purse and slapped it in Skathi's hand. "Here. You were promised a reward for solving the crime," she stated, "but I need one more favor from you." She continued grimly, "Morthal is still in danger. This journal mentions Movarth, a master vampire I thought was destroyed a century ago. I'll gather some able-bodied warriors to clean out Movarth's lair. They'll be waiting outside for you to lead them."

"I will," Skathi nodded.

Before long, a mob of citizens were stood outside, torches in hand, blades strapped to their belts. The outsider took one of own and mounted her horse, leading them to the edge of town. With the help of villagers, she was put on the right path to Movarth's lair. "Kill the beast!" they chanted all the way there.

On the way there, it set in that this was a far more dangerous undertaking than perhaps any here could comprehend. They were going to fight a vampire that had escaped death one before. He had ambitions to claim Morthal in his name. He would not be a bandit a strong sword arm could take. Perhaps they would fail and die, but they make one glorious end of it. That idea lacked any appetizing implications.

When they came upon his lair, a cave, Skathi dismounted and told the lot of them, "Kill the beast!"

They barely slowed down throughout. Woodsmen's axes burst the heads of spiders to begin with, but then they came across those enthralled by vampiric powers. They were harder to kill but fell just the same.

What was far less easy were the vampires. A coven called this place home, so of course they would fight like animals to defend it. Blood was spilled and drain, but at the front was a Redguard, swinging his great war hammer and taking out half a dozen of their lot at once. This man broke the defense and Skathi followed him further.

Soon, they came across a monstrous banquet. Dead bodies lay on a long table, with the head of it sitting with pride like a king. At the sight of intruders, he called his guest to raise and draw blades. This would be the bloodiest fight of all.

"Here," the Redguard spoke in a voice as deep as shadow, "You'll need it."

He handed Skathi an axe, sharp and intricate. When the vampires fought them, it cleaved through their flesh faster than Skathi's own sword. It seemed in the same vein as the Redguard's war hammer. It implied he knew a thing or two about vampires. Did he know they were here?

Interrupting that thought was Movarth nearly taking Skathi's head of with a swing from his sword. With the axe, she was hardly able to duel. She could barely hook the blade from striking her face. Locked in this, the Redguard smashed the vampire master off her and threw him onto the table, but he landed on his feet. This would take more than mortal blades.

"Fus ro!"

The Shout broke his resolve and he stubbled to his knees. Before he finished falling, Skathi brought her axe on his head. It tore off, spraying blood across the blood and floor. The creature screamed as its skin burned away into ash. It was over.

But Skathi's hand was still shaking. Why? Why had this unnerved her?

Alva was nowhere to be seen, but she would surely be hunted down with the townsfolk on the prowl.

Skathi turned to the Redguard. "Thanks for the axe," she remarked.

"I'll need it back," he stated.

The hunt over, Skathi was willing to give it back. "Where'd you get it?" she asked as she handed it over to the Redguard.

"I made it," he explained, "Vampires need specialized weapons to efficiently kill them."

This raised a question: why did he have these weapon? While Skathi wasn't most people, but she knew they wouldn't expect to meet a vampire, so his readiness was unusual. And why, of all places, did he manage to end up here at the right moment? It wasn't like anyone knew vampires were in the area until tonight, so it was quite a mighty coincidence. Skathi wouldn't press the issue though; too late in the day for discussion.

She led to the townsfolk back to town, where they went back to their homes. It had been a long night, and everyone was tired. Skathi came back to the inn and fell into her bed, relieved.

"So, you had a good night out?" Lydia asked.

"Fuck you, Lydia," Skathi groaned and she passed out.