"I cannot recall the last time we spoke that your armor was not covered in blood," said Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone.
"You have a gift for hyperbole, Jarl," Hellina replied with a smile. Her armor was, indeed, free of blood, and brains, and entrails, and every other byproduct of fighting night walkers, werebeast, and all the other creatures that the Hand was called upon to deal with, "though I confess that I am not always as diligent in my preparations to meet you as I should be."
"You are as neat as pin by comparison, Commander, and I know it is not because you come to see me. Tell me, is you hansom new husband with you?"
Hellina's smile turned into a laugh before she answered. It was no secret that the Jarl of Hjaalmarch had spies everywhere; it was how she stayed so well informed, and so many steps ahead of her enemies.
"He remained at home, Jarl; someone must see to our affairs, and the completion of out new structures."
"That is another topic for us to discuss. You cannot simply seize upon every builder that happens to ride by your expanding village and put him to work. Some of us, who reside in Skyrim just as you do, have need of builders just as you do. Builders, blacksmiths, sawyers, quarrymen; Morthal seems almost deserted."
Morthal was indeed lacking a good number of its residents, as was Dawnstar. Workers from as far away as Dragon's Bridge heeded the call of work and profit, and were making excellent progress in their efforts to expand the Silver Hand's still unnamed village.
"Are you sure you did not simply lose them in the mists, Jarl? We almost lost our way traveling here, and I am familiar with almost every inch of Hjaalmarch."
Jarl Idgrod's hearty laugh could be heard one-hundred paced from her long house.
"The mists are thick, even for Morthal; there is no denying it. The Gods give with one hand, and take with the other. The temperatures have been mild, but the mists have not. Do you come to steal those citizens who chose to hide in the mists during your last visit?"
"I brought our young Healer to consult with Falion. She has been with us only a few months, and her education did not cover treating vampire bites or werebeast wounds. One of the structures that those kidnapped builders erect is her infirmary, and her home as well. She is shopping for the tools of her trade, supplies, ingredients for potions and poultices, and furnishings."
Idgrod stood up from her seat of office, but only to move to a nearby table. She indicated a chair with her left hand as she herself took the chair opposite. Hellina knew that the woman who had seen slightly more than fifty winters rarely stood on ceremony, so she was not surprised when the Jarl poured two goblets of wine with her own hand.
"You and Carcette should have taken my advice and joined forces, or at lease residences. You are a matched set. And you could learn a thing or two from their religious zeal."
"We became good friends, and I cannot deny that my heart would have swelled with joy if they had accepted; but they did not, and I cannot say that I blame them. They lost so many men and women, as well as their home, in the attack. Then to take up residence with a group that they hardly knew, so outnumbered by men and women that did not share their beliefs, in lodgings that could not help but feel borrowed, I could not have born it for long either."
"Every word you speak rings true. But it is still a shame."
"We have not become total strangers, though. We visit them, they visit us. Some of the Hand and the Vigilants are even now on the march towards Kynesgrove."
The Jarl smiled in that fashion that the initiated knew preceded a linguistic barb. "That is a march indeed. You could find nothing closer to home worthy of your interest?"
"We were so overtaken by vampires that we were forced to defer action on other matters. We are now tending to that backlog, in this case a report of a Hagraven in Eastmarch."
"Send a letter to the Eastmarch Rangers, Hellina; you cannot defend every inch of Skyrim yourself. Allow others the honor of occasionally defending their home as well. There is more than enough honor and glory in Skyrim for everyone to share in."
"It is very good advice, Jarl, but they are already away," Hellina said as she enjoyed another mouthful of excellent wine, "I promise that I will do just as you suggest when the opportunity presents itself."
"Save your words, dear girl; I know full well you will do no such thing. It is written all over your face," Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone said to the Commander of The Silver Hand, as she refilled both their goblets, "Well, you must do as you see fit; the Gods know that if I wish a task done properly, I must do it myself."
"We are of a kind then, honored Jarl," Hellina replied as she raised her goblet in toast to the woman sitting across from her.
"In the name of the Gods greater and lesser, will it never depart?" Clesa asked as she tilted her head to keep the creature in view. She had restrained her long braids at the request of Salama, who was convinced that the noise from the sections of hollow bone capping each braid could be heard all the way to Windhelm as they rattled together at the slightest motion of the Redguard woman's head.
"I believe in this instance I can answer for the Gods and say, no," Balan answered.
The frost dragon had been circling overhead for almost an hour, no doubt sensing that a meal of some sort was hidden in the terrain below. Luckily the four warriors, and their horses, were well hidden under a large outcropping of rock that had been well on its way to becoming a cave before it abandoned the effort.
"Do you have dragons in Hammerfell?" Terek asked the two Redguard warriors, "I know they are not so common in Cyrodiil."
"They are not common in Morrowind either," Salama said as she peaked her head out from under cover just enough to watch the dragon as it continued to circle, seemingly without effort, "not as common as they are in Skyrim at least. Perhaps they prefer the taste of Nords, and so they congregate in these northern climes."
"Much of Hammerfell is desert, and dragons do not like it," Balan said, "but there are creatures in the desert that are just as deadly as dragons; worse even. They are much smaller, harder to notice, and strike like lightning. You feel their sting, and you are dead a moment later."
"I am sure I would prefer that to being eaten alive by a dragon," Terek said after checking his horses girth before returning to the edge of the overhanging rock and sitting down on the ground beneath it.
"Remind me to travel with the two of you more often," Clesa said, "a more cheerful pair of doomsayers I have never known."
Salama's laughter at Terek's hurt expression was quickly taken up by Clesa.
"Do not pout," she said to him as she lay on the ground and put her head in his lap to gaze up at the dragon when its circular flight brought it into her view, "you have other qualities that more than compensate for your occasional Imperial moroseness."
The two of them smiled at each other as Clesa's eyebrows reached for the sky.
"Do tell, friend; what qualities would those be?"
"She will say nothing, and neither will I," Terek said as his right hand found Salama's, "you will just have to use your imagination."
"Your friends are too guarded, Balan," Clesa said to her countryman, "Gwenyfe and Sharn are as different as night is from day compared to these two."
"Gwenyfe and Sharn are unlike anyone in my experience," Balan said, "they think a thing and it is instantly painted on their faces, and then announced in their words. And some of the things that Sharn says..."
"Keeping company with Sharn is not for those with delicate sensibilities. But they are a happy pair, and I was happy to travel with them," Clesa said as her broad smile appeared, "I would do so again in an instant."
"I am sure you will eventually get your wish, if this cursed dragon ever allows us to leave," Balan said as he look towards the sky once again, and the creature that continued to scan for it's dinner.
"Scribble, scribble, scratch, scratch," Sharn said as she put the finishing touches on the new cord wrap covering the hilt of her sword, "does your hand not grow tired from all that writing?"
"My hand is accustomed to it," Gwenyfe said as she kept her attention on the parchment in front of her.
"You do realize, do you not, that when you write a letter to your sister that weighs no less than five pounds everyone in our small community knows exactly what you write about. Or should I say, who you write about, since the subject is certainly Aric, Thane of Whatever Hold He Desires."
Gwenyfe was about to issue a sharp retort to her friend and sword sister, but her mouth was stopped by the realization that what Sharn said was nothing but the truth, and could not be argued with. She was certainly writing to Siobhan, the topic was most definitely Aric, in particular Gwenyfe's alternation between ecstasy and terror at the proposition of finally meeting him, and the number of pages she had already written would earn the courier a hefty sum.
"Not all of us relieve our stress by pummeling someone with our fists," Gwenyfe answered as she took a moment to sprinkle fine sand over what she had just written, "this is my method; I write to my sister. I find it calming, and it does not bruise my knuckles, or anyone else's face."
"That is not the only way I relieve stress," Sharn said, her lecherous smile again on display.
"Gods, I cannot hear this," Gwenyfe said as she covered her ears, "you know that I am trying to keep my mind off of such things, least I run mad with thoughts of my beloved Aric."
"Your beloved Aric?" Sharn asked, her voice and her eyebrows rising higher with every word.
Gwenyfe's face displayed the shock she felt at realizing that she had spoken those words out loud.
"I mean Thane Aric," Gwenyfe said as her face became bright red.
Sharn spoke slowly, enunciating each word clearly.
"That is not what you said. You said my beloved Aric."
Gwenyfe buried her face in her hands, which made it difficult for Sharn to hear what she said next.
"Merciful Gods, take this insanity from me, I beg you. I do not know how to stop thinking of him."
Sharn took pity on her friend, and did not tease her further.
"It is easily corrected, Gwen, I can attest to that. You are a grown woman, do you truly need me to spell it out in words as if you were a maid? Pick an attractive face, take him into your bed, and relieve yourself of this burden, even if it is only a temporary relief. You will go broke if you do not. All your gold will be in the pocket of the courier; and he will die from exhaustion, either on his way to Markath, or traveling back again."
"I do not dare. It would be Aric's face I see if I did as you suggest, I know it. And I would die of shame if it was also his name I spoke in the heat of passion."
"Even better then, if you see his face. One body is as good as another in my experience, at least when it is dark. See his face, imagine his body, but keep his name off your lips as you appease whatever spirit torments you. Afterwards I pray you will be more like your old self; I cannot recall ever seeing you so distracted."
Gwenyfe was not the only one distracted with thoughts of Aric, but she was the only one with a sister to whom she could write. Vala had no sister of any kind except for Hellina, who was the next best thing. But Vala could not talk to here about this. They had spoken at length about Farkas, and her feelings for him, but since then their conversations had been brief. She could not go to Hellina again to discuss her yearning for another man. Vala could already imagine how that conversation would progress.
First Farkas, now Aric. Who will be the topic of our next conversation, Ulfric Stormcloak?
She could not talk to Gwenyfe; She was fortunate that the Reachwoman lacked the skill to kill with a glance, or else Vala's life would have ended when it appeared that she alone would approach Aric. Sharn...Vala had enough experience with the Orsimer woman to know that any conversation with her regarding Aric, or any attractive man that she had laid eyes on, would quickly take a lascivious turn. She might have, out of sheer desperation, spoken to her brother, but Terek was away, investigating a report of a Hagraven that was so ancient that the creature might have died of old age in the time since they were alerted.
It dawned on her that there was one person who was familiar with Aric, one person who had known him for years, though that person was many years younger than Vala. Younger, but not so young as to be immune to the charms of the Thane of Almost Everywhere.
"I thought I might find you here," Vala said to the young healer, who was refilling an earthen jar with some contents that Vala did not recognize. The two storied structure, which served as Eofel's home (on the upper floor) and her infirmary (on the lower floor) was the first of the new structures to be completed, and the slight woman had taken up residence only a week earlier. She had returned from Morthal with a cart that had been packed to the point of overflowing with tomes, medicinal supplies and ingredients, instruments, and furniture; and she had wasted no time in putting her apothecary in order.
"Can I help you," asked the somewhat sweaty woman, who had removed her outer robe and wore only the inner one as she scooped a greenish blue power out of a sack and into the jar.
"I wanted to ask about your time at the College."
Eofel was still quite young, but she was also quite intelligent, and observant. She had entered the college during her fourteenth autumn, and Aric had arrived a year later. She was almost ten years younger than some in her class, but Aric was two decades older. Her instructors had recognized immediately that her skills and knowledge were quite advanced for someone her age, but her abilities were nothing compared to his. He had either no skill or no interest in either Alteration or Illusion, but in Conjuration, Destruction, and Restoration magic he had no equal. And Urag himself was forced to scour the Arcanaeum for hours on end to even begin to understand the Old Magic that Aric wielded, reading from books from the second era that were so delicate that he held his breath while he read them. Many students, Eofel included, wondered openly why it was that he chose to attend the college at all, let alone entering as a novice student.
But that was not why this Imperial warrior stopped by to talk. Eofel had seen that look too many times, from students as young (almost) as she was, to instructors older than Aric. Imperial, Nord, Altmer, Dunmer, Breton, the race of the woman did not seem to matter; Professor Colette Marence herself was apt to set her laboratory on fire accidentally if the Archmage (after he had ascended to that office) were to stop by. And it was not an interest in The Lore and Practices of The Old Gods of The Reach that motivated those women to seek out the Novice who would later become Archmage.
"What is it you wish to know?" Eofel asked. Just thinking about the college made her cold. If there had ever been a day that had not been snowy, or windy, or frigid, or a combination thereof, Eofel could not remember it, "It is located on the outskirts of the ruins of Winterhold, and the residents there still blame the college for its partial destruction."
"So I have heard. I wanted to ask you about the Archmage. His name is Aric, is it not?"
Gods, will you truly stand there and look me in the face and pretend that you do not know? she thought. She did not shake her head in disbelief, not physically at least; but the head of her imagination was doing exactly that as she answered.
"What is it you wish to know about him?" Eofel asked innocently as she began to don her outer robe, "may I offer you tea?"
"It is not as abandoned as I expected. It has been repaired, and maintained."
They found the shack on the banks of the White River, southwest of Kynesgrove. I was built with its back against a large outcropping of rock just as it had been described to them.
"Someone has played a trick on us," Terek said, "no Hagraven would choose a home such as this. It is too near the water, and too far from the forest. It is too exposed."
"There is no altar for sacrifices, no signs of werebeasts, or any other of their preferred pets; and no blood, fresh or dried, and no bones."
"What manner of feathers are these?" Salama asked as she looked at the contents of a basket in the shack, the basket's cover in her left hand, and a feather in her right."
"It is a Hagraven feather," Terek said as he looked at the feather in her hand, and the others in the basket that were too numerous to count.
"So she was here," Clesa said, "but how long ago? And is it normal for them to lose so many feathers?"
"I do not know," Terek said, "the vampires had plucked the one in their underground castle clean by the time we found her hanging by her feet."
"But no blood here," Balan said, "so whoever plucked this one did it somewhere else. And this is no vampire lair."
"Nothing about this makes sense," Clesa said.
"Let us ask at Kynesgrove," Salama suggested, "they are close by, and we should start to consider where to lodge tonight, under a roof, or under canvas."
"I will gladly place as much distance between my back and this frozen ground as possible. Eastmarch is a cold land compared to home," Terek said.
"Some of us sleep under canvas even when we are home," Balan said as he looked at Terek and Salama in turn, "and some of us have to provide our own warmth."
Clesa's laugh was clear, and beautiful, with a musical tone that Balan much admired. Salama smiled as Terek's face turned red, but she did not let any hint of laughter escape her lips.
The Braidwood Inn in Kynesgrove was crowded. Half of the men and women inside the large common room appeared to be miners. The other half appeared to be priests and priestesses. They kept to themselves, sitting together in groups, but they were happy groups, and talked openly. In the back of the room, seated by herself at a small table was a Dunmer mage. The woman exchanged glances with Salama as the four members of the Hand moved towards the only table that was still unoccupied, but Salama noticed immediately that the woman, who appeared underneath her still raised hood to be a decade older than she was, have neither the desire nor the intention of conversing with anyone. She seemed out of place in this inn that was filled with large friendly groups.
The two women who sat a short distance from the mage also seemed out of place, but less so. They also sat at a small table as they ate their dinner. They were clearly warriors, both of them Nords by their features. At first glance Terek took them for sisters, and he was not the only one to make that mistake. They were about the same height and build, their brown eyes sitting just below an abundance of brown hair that neither had found necessary to cut for at least a year.
"Lodging for the night, Mistress Innkeeper," Clesa said to the Nord woman who was rinsing used mugs in a vat filled with hot water, "and dinner for four hungry travelers."
The Redguard woman with the very long braids and the very attractive figure was drawing a fair amount of attention as she stood at the counter and placed a fair number of coins onto the damp surface.
Iddra's face, which had a moment before held a modicum of suspicion, brightened considerably at the number of coins that she quickly swept off of the counter top and into her apron.
"Stendarr bless you, Vigilant," the owner of the Braidwood Inn replied as she wiped her hands on a cloth, "you honor our humble establishment with your presence."
"You may honor us in return, and serve Stendarr in the process, if you wish," Clesa said as the second man in under a minute found some reason to walk past her before turning to see if the front of her was just as attractive as the back, "we investigate a report of a Hagraven that was recently seen in a shack near the river. The shack is empty. Do you have information that could help us?"
The innkeeper's hands were both still occupied, and so she used her chin to indicate the two women sitting in the back corner of the inn.
"No, but if it occurred anywhere in Eastmarch, Captain Sophie Storm-Dawn will know."