3 Heartfire 4E201, Holding of Morgate, Falkreath
By the Divines, that is a magnificent animal.
Somehow Ivar had managed to creep up on the beast, from downwind and without making any noise. Out in the forest clearing just ahead: an enormous stag, its great rack of antlers weighing down its head, its pelt gleaming pure white in the twilight. It grazed calmly on leaves and grass, unaware of the hunter's presence not far away.
Slowly, with extreme deliberation, Ivar readied his bow. Laid an arrow to the string. Prepared the weapon, his powerful arms holding it motionless at its greatest extension, his breathing under perfect control.
He fired.
A moment of timeless anticipation. The arrow caught the sunset light, flashing golden for just as an instant as it flew.
Then the arrow smacked into the beast's flank. Crimson appeared on white as it transfixed the beast's heart.
The stag made one great, convulsive leap, and then crashed to its side into the underbrush.
Ivar stood, slowly, his eyes wide with stunned surprise.
Talos best and most mighty. I will never make such a shot as that again.
He walked forward, stood over the slain stag. Slowly, wonder gave way to avarice.
How will that pelt look in my main hall? Those antlers above the fireplace?
Ivar felt the sweat of exertion, unpleasantly cool on his skin. He reached into his belt pouch, still lost in the wonder of his perfect kill, and produced a cloth to mop his forehead.
"Preserve this moment," commanded a deep voice from the empty air. "To go out into the world. To track, to follow, to kill. To take what you must have to live. This is your deepest inheritance, Man."
Ivar jumped in startlement, his nerves stretched taut as the string of his bow. He peered into the gathering darkness, not quite seeing the outline of a great figure in the shadows. Taller than human, muscular, a proud head crowned with horns? Whatever it was, it reeked of power.
"My lord Hircine," he murmured cautiously.
"You recognize me. Good. I recognize you, Man. My mark is upon you. You are mine, to your death and beyond."
"I'm not here to swear allegiance to you, my lord. I'm a civilized man, who owes fealty to the Nine. Sovngarde is my destination, not your hunting grounds."
"Your self-delusions are none of my concern. You are mine. You may recognize this, play your part in the hunt that constitutes your life, and win peace before the end. Or you may struggle and resist me, and go down in great pain and suffering. The choice is yours. It matters not at all to me."
The smith shook his head. "I had hoped to speak to you, my prince. In the matter of a ring, stolen by the skin-changer Sinding."
"Yes. I see the ring upon your finger."
Ivar gasped, stared at his right hand. There it was, the iron ring with the carven wolf's head, resting on his third finger. Somehow it must have slipped onto his hand when he reached into the pouch.
"Did I not say that my mark was upon you? Whatever intentions may have ruled your daylight mind, the beast within recognizes power and seeks it out. Now when the moon waxes, you too will run in wolf's shape, in pursuit of flesh and blood."
"No!" Ivar howled.
"Do you seek to deny me? I, who have provided for your kind since before ice lay heavy on the earth?"
"I want no part of this! I am a man, not a beast!"
"Very well. Then I will tell you how to gain a reprieve. Seek out the man who stole this gift which I have given you freely. Hunt him down under the blood moon. Slay him, and then take his skin as a trophy."
Ivar's breath came hard and fast. He felt claws of iron at his belly, an urge to turn and hurl the contents of his gut into the brush. "No. To hunt down another man, and deal with him thus . . ."
"A man? A beast? A killer? A prey? The one named Sinding is all of these things. So are you, helpless mortal, heir to a thousand generations of bloody-handed hunters. Every role in this masque is open to you, for the moment. The one choice you may not make is to stand aside. Act as my hand of wrath, or risk experiencing my wrath in your own flesh."
Ivar stood still for a long moment.
Chase down Sinding . . . or become an abomination.
He is a murderer, to be sure. The killer of an innocent child. He deserves death, at least.
Not that the daedra cares a whit for that.
"All right, my prince." Ivar swallowed hard, struggling to control himself. "If I do this, you will take back the ring?"
"I will take back the ring. I will dismiss my mark upon you for now. Although there will come a time when you accept it once more. Willingly."
"Wth all due respect, my lord, that day will never come."
"We will see. One who can justify such a deed once, will justify it again."
Then the shadow faded away, the presence of the daedra no longer shimmering on the air.
Ivar shivered, his sweat running cold in the evening air. Then he dropped a shaking hand once more, to draw his hunting horn up to his lips. He blew a great blast, the sound rolling through the forest and echoing off the sides of the distant hills.
Lakeview Manor is less than a mile from here, he thought. The carls working to rebuild the hall will hear me. They will come and help me with this carcass. I will keep the horns and the hide, and this evening they can feast on the meat.
At least the moons are not yet in position. I can go for a while before this curse falls on me. I hope.