3 Heartfire 4E201, Falkreath
"So. Come to gawk at the monster, have you?"
Ivar leaned against the wall outside a dungeon cell, his arms folded, watching the man imprisoned within. The man named Sinding looked harmless enough: a blond Nord with an ill-trimmed beard, wearing nothing but a rough pair of breeches. Thin, even scrawny. Rather pathetic, as he crouched shivering in his cell.
"I'm trying to figure out why the jarl's men would throw you in here," said the smith at last.
"Oh, I deserve it." The blond head slumped. "A little girl is dead because of me."
"It's true, then. You're one of the Úlfhéðnar."
Sinding shook his head in weary dejection. "It wasn't anything I intended. I just lost control. I tried to tell them, but no one believes me. It's all on account of this damnable ring."
"What ring?"
Sinding extended his right hand for Ivar to examine. There, on the third finger: an iron band, forged with a wolf's head.
Strange, that the jarl's men didn't relieve him of that. Ivar shuddered slightly. Or perhaps they couldn't.
"Here it is," said the prisoner. "A thing of the daedra, of Prince Hircine, the lord of the hunt. I was told it could help me control my transformation. Perhaps it could if I had come by it honestly, I don't know. Hircine didn't care for my taking it, and threw a curse on it. When I put it on, the changes began to just happen. I could never guess when. It could be at the worst times. Like with the little girl."
"Have you always been a werewolf?"
Sinding flinched at the word. "All my life. It was my secret, and my shame. It's why I wanted the ring. It was said to give men like me control. But even wearing the wretched thing, I still feel the beast inside me, as strong as ever."
Ivar felt his jaw set with grim revulsion. "Hircine is a cruel master."
"How well I know it." Sinding stood up, a ghost of pride putting strength in his spine. "Still, the hunt . . . you can't know how it is. This body we now share isn't suited for it. Weak. Slow. No claws. Flat teeth for chewing cud. When the rage comes, it sweeps away restraint. The chase, the kill, the taste of flesh and blood in the throat . . ."
Sinding saw something in Ivar's face. He trailed to a stop.
"Still," he continued after an awkward moment. "I feel terrible about what happened. About what I did. It would be best for everyone if I just went away."
"That wouldn't do any good," Ivar growled. "Anywhere you went, the curse would follow. There would be some other helpless victim. Another man's child."
"You're probably right." Sinding's head lowered again, as if he couldn't bear the sight of the man outside his cage. "I've been looking for some way to appease the god. Get him to lift the curse from this ring. It's the only way I can see to go on living."
"What have you found?"
"There's a certain beast in these lands. Large. Majestic. It's said the god will commune with anyone who slays it in the hunt. I was tracking it in the forest northeast of here, but then I had my accident. I want to beg the god's forgiveness. Give him back the ring. But I can't do that while I'm stuck in here."
Ivar frowned, thinking hard for a long time.
"I could do this for you," he said at last.
Sinding raised his head, a flicker of hope deep in his eyes.
"I have some experience with the daedra," the smith said, tapping the hilt of Dawnbreaker at his side. "No man should suffer as one of their playthings, even one such as you."
"You would do such a thing for me?" breathed Sinding. His hands scrabbled together for a moment, pulled the iron ring from his finger. "Here, take it. I don't want anything to do with it anymore."
Ivar reached out. Hesitated. Dipped into his belt pouch instead, producing a small cloth. Only then did he take the iron ring, protecting his fingers and wrapping the thing up at once, hiding it away back in his pouch.
"Wise." Sinding nodded in satisfaction. "Seek out the beast. Bring it down and . . . well, the Lord of the Hunt should smile on you. More than he ever has on me. I wish you luck."
Ivar nodded.
"Now you should leave this place."
Ivar frowned. Had the prisoner's voice become deeper?
"Should our paths cross again, I will remember your kindness. Farewell."
Suddenly Sinding didn't seem nearly as weak and scrawny as he had a moment before. His muscles swelled, he grew taller, hair as black as night sprang out to cover his form. His tattered breeches fell to the filthy floor of his cell, forgotten.
Ivar took one step back, then another, his eyes wide. Dawnbreaker was out and in his hand, although he didn't remember drawing the blade.
The beast that had been Sinding stared at Ivar for a long moment, its red eyes catching Dawnbreaker's light. Then it made a long, low snarl and turned away. Quick as a flash, it scaled the stone wall of its cell and reached a grating far above, covering a gap in the wall that let in air and light. A loud growl, an enormous sound of iron bars breaking, and it was gone.
Heavy boots on stone. Three of the jarl's men appeared, carrying weapons, their faces pale and covered with sweat. Wide eyes stared past Ivar into the empty cell.
"What happened here, my lord thane?" asked one, a grey-haired man who walked with a definite limp.
"I'd say our prisoner decided it was time to leave," said the smith.
"You didn't let him out?"
"Certainly not." Ivar sheathed his blade. "Though somehow I don't think he will trouble Falkreath again."