Skyrim Audio-adventure

Chapter 1

A Wicked Wind

The Hunter awoke to the songs of bird and the scraping of pine needles as the morning breeze blew them about in lazy patterns. His bones felt strong today, a good day to hunt, but his furs were warm and they wanted him to stay. His eyes were crusty from sleep. He moved to wipe them clean but his hands were reluctant brushing against the soft pelts covering him. He decided that before he chose to wake up properly he should take inventory and stock of his surroundings. He took a deep breath... and remembered.

Five apples from Helgen would keep him fed for the day. His trusty hunting bow, Laria, and twenty sturdy iron tipped arrows were at hand should any game wander by. He had a fine stack of fire wood and an axe to chop it. That, combined with his furs and sleeping sack would keep him warm. Should it rain his rudimentary tent would keep him dry. No books though, but if he was going back to sleep he wouldn't need them. No matter how he figured it, there was no good reason to get up right now. Except a strange scratchy feeling at the back of his throat. What was that called? Oh right, thirst. He blindly reached for something resting on the ground near his hip, when his hand closed around a loose pouch he internally swore. Damn! He knew he'd forgotten something, empty waterskin.

Oh well there was no helping it, all this thought had pretty much woken him up anyway. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and sat up, had a head rush and immediately laid back down again, deciding that two more minutes couldn't hurt. He closed his eyes and listened.

To the east he could faint buzzing from the fortified town of Helgen. The market was probably doing good business this time of day; Marcos would be selling his catch, Vilod would be turning a fine profit with is ever popular flavored meads and ciders and Ingrid would be doing her morning cleaning, with her golden hair tied back in a tail, shining bright in the cold morning sun.

The Hunter smiled. They have always been kind to this mutt what camps on their doorstep. He had never been teased or ridiculed for his thick patchy clothes, his empty pockets, or his secretive ways. In truth the many people of Helgen were a far better family than he could ever ask for. They never asked for anything in return for their kindness at least not unless the Imperial legion was trying to recruit him. Even now he could hear archers shooting into their wood and straw targets. The whistles and thuds of the arrows, mere whispers and taps to his ears. He was a far better archer, he knew, than half those in the legion. However it was a different kind of archery, that of a stalking hunter. It is hardly comparable to firing in volley at distant and numerous foes; he might spend hours planning his shot and sneaking closer before he loosed a single arrow.

To the south he could hear the close are of the deep evergreen forests that made up most of Falkreath hold. He normally stayed near Helgen and Lake Illinalta, but when cold fronts came down from the north in Frostfall those dense woods made for lush hunting grounds. Travel far enough south and you'd reach the city a Falkreath. He had never been that far south, but he had heard of the graveyard and tombs in and around the city. These dense forests were beautiful to him, but others seemed to look at those monuments to the dead and paint Falkreath hold as a rather grim place. They did not see the life that permeates the air in the shape of birds, butterflies and dragonflies. They did not hear the splashing of salmon in the streams or the calls or wolves to the stars above.

To the north he heard the whistling of a biting cold breeze, as the land began to slope dramatically upwards. These were the roots of the legendary mountain the locals called the Throat of the World, and high, high beyond the range of any earthbound eye there lay a holy temple, High Hrothgar, where the reclusive Greybeards spoke to the gods. If you believed in such things. He didn't. He preferred to think that this harsh life in the wilds had been earned through persistence and skill, rather than the blessings of Kynareth. Even magic was beyond him, he had seen it's power but had never had the faintest apptitude for it. Daedra, Divines, Aetherius, he had no sense of any of it. And since he knew that he would never know the puppet-masters who pulled the strings on his brief existence than for his purposes of seeing the next day, they may as well not be there. As he pressed his ear to the ground he did not hear Kynareth whispering to him. What he did hear was a faint low beat, footsteps, steady, four hooves, mid-sized, perhaps a deer or young elk. It was coming from the west. He grinned at his luck. The west what where he was headed anyway.

To the west he could hear the faint rushing of water as the eastern edge of lake Illinalta emptied into a rapid north-flowing river. The guardian stones would be standing majestic in their quiet oddity, and on the far mountain bleak-falls barrow would be casting it's foreboding shadow on the land below. He knew some of the other hunters and vagabonds that lived around the lake; most of them made their living as fishermen. He almost never fished so they never had any reason to object to his presence. The thought of the glistening lake made him clear his dry throat in thirst.

It was a couple of miles to the lake but mostly downhill and on his way there he might be able to nab a deer. He listened again to pinpoint the hoof-falls, it was close, he'd need to be quiet about getting up. Deftly he slipped out of his bedding and snatched up his bow and quiver he picked a pair of apples from their sack and stowed them in a back pouch. He ran his course hand through the dirt savoring the soft feeling, before picking up several handfuls and dumping it on the black remains of his fire from the previous night. The smokey scent would travel farther than his own musk if allowed to rise into the wind. However, that same smokey scent, if localized, could mask his own scent. Which is why he crushed a bit of char in his hand and rubbed it into the armpits of his furs before setting out.
...

He stayed low as he moved all but silently through the brambles and ferns. One of his scout points was coming up, a bare rock outcropping that gave him a good view of his surroundings. He crawled on his belly to the edge of the cliff moving little more than a couple yards every minute. When at last he reached the lip, he slowly removed one of his fur-crafted gauntlets and reached his hand over the edge. Another stroke of luck. Though the tips of the high-reaching trees appeared to be caressed by a westward breeze, the light chill on his fingers told him that there was a steady gust coming off the lake. He was downwind of his prey.

He was about to pull himself up to glance over the lip, when with the dainty touch of a maiden's kiss a vibrant blue butterfly alighted on his knuckles. It waited there flexing it's almost iridescent wings in the sun. The Hunter thought the tiny creature might be looking at him, he was certainly looking at it, with an expression that was both quizzical and amused. There were a few little black dots on the back of his guests wings, and on one of them, the left one, there was a small hole like it had been in a fight with a sewing needle. It must have been a minute they stayed there like that before the butterfly took off and flew in the direction of at patch of wildflower.

Making sure to dig his toes into the earth, lifting himself ever so slightly so his body didn't loudly scrape across the rock, the hunter pulled himself up to peek over the edge. His meticulous almost pedantic methods had paid off. About thirty yards away, grazing in a clearing, was a young male elk. It's antlers were still unbranched spikes unlikely to fetch a pretty price, but the meat would keep him fed and the hide was still strong and could be sold.

He knew he couldn't take the shot from where he lay, he would have to pull upright to draw his bow and by then he would be seen. The Elk would likely run to the left where a large stand of trees was waiting to hide him. However to the right, conveniently located near a good spot for him to lower himself off the cliff was a single tree with a varied assortment of thistles and bramble bushes around it's base. That is where he'd take the shot.

He back himself away from the edge and quietly flanked to the right. When the tree was between him and the elk he approached the U where the cliff dips down and climbed the seven or so feet down to the forest floor. He checked his shot, it was good. He readied his bow, Laria, and drew an arrow out of his quiver, he notched the arrow took aim and drew it back, slowly exhaled, steadied himself... then suddenly there it was again. That blue butterfly alighted on the knuckles of his left hand at first he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. This crazy little bug was blocking his view of the elk. He was probably still on target but if he loosed the arrow now it would probably obliterate the little stranger as it whipped past, and he didn't want that. Still he couldn't wait very long, he could already feel his back and shoulder muscles growing sore perhaps he could get it to take off buy blowing on it as quietly as he could, he inhaled and softly blew down his outstretched arm. The blue-winged visitor seemed unperturbed. Frustrated, he took a bigger breath, when suddenly something small and brown darted out from around his feet and tore away through the underbrush. The elk raised it's head and bolted disappearing into the trees before the hunter could even blow a second just at the butterfly.

For a moment he was still. A rabbit, he hadn't been looking at the ground and he had spooked a rabbit out of it's den. The elk probably never knew he was there, it just fled at the sudden movement. It was a beginner's mistake and he knew it; he'd gotten overconfident, and the butterfly didn't help. He let out a sigh and slowly let down the arrow. Only now did the butterfly take off and flutter away in the direction the rabbit had gone. The hunter lowered his bow, returned the arrow to the quiver and reached for an apple. He bit into the fruit with a little more intent than he usually did as he continued west to lake Illanalta.
...

The sun was high and he had to shield his eyes when he finally step out of the trees and crossed the cobble road to the shores of the lake. This was the main road that led from Falkreath city to the hold of Whiterun to the north. There was a beautiful valley just north of here, wedged between the throat of the world and the mountain that bore bleak-falls barrow. Within that valley there lay the southern most town in Whiterun hold, Riverwood. A kind little town with a crazy old woman a standoffish bar-maid and a boisterous blacksmith. He had been a couple times but had never stayed long enough to learn any of their names. Beyond that, if one cared to continue north the land opened up into vast undulating grass lands. As far a one looked there were golden waves dancing in the wind and rising up on a lonely plateau was the city of Whiterun itself. A wealthy wonderful place with houses made of upturned boats and temples of healing and ancient trees.

Or so he had heard. He had never cared to venture that far north he preferred the shadows and cover of the trees here in Falkreath. Around here he was among the largest predators around; sure there were the occasional wolves but fire was always an effective deterrent and even if it came to a fight they were manageable in small numbers. As long as he could make himself a tougher kill than a deer he was fine. Over in Whiterun he'd heard tell of saborcats the size of horses, of giants as tall as four men, and venom-spitting spiders the size of bears. No, living with the wolves suited him just fine.

As he removed his furred garments to sun his sore muscles, the cold air nipped at several long scares on his right side and a few old puncture wounds on his right forearm. Aching reminders of a fight long past, a fight that had ended with something resembling mutual respect. He took a moment to examine himself. He was thin but not malnourished. He was well equipped with good lean muscle, he was strong yet quick like a ferret. Or at least, as he liked to think of it, he was exactly what he needed to be. Though he may not be impressive compared to the burly shoulders and broad chest of a blacksmith, such large muscle required a lot of fuel, such excess was not always available given his standing in life.

The water weeds tickled his feet as he waded out into the lake gasping a little at the cold. He placed his empty waterskin in his mouth along with a clean cloth he used to filter water and dived out into the lake. In the ire murk of the underwater world he floated listening. The only thing he had to worry about here were the slaughterfish. If they were on the hunt they would make a b-line for their prey with such ferocity that you could easily hear them thrashing their way towards you. The lake was quiet, or rather as quiet as water ever gets. With confidence he struck out towards a small island about 20 yards off shore, where the current was a bit more noticeable than at the edge. He emerged with a gasp and crawled onto this dry spot hardly big enough to stand a horse.

He drank several filter-fulls of water before filling up his water skin. While he sat there he looked towards the south. Somewhere on that side of the lake a strong nord woman named Hert had been planning to start a lumber mill. He knew this because she had passed through Helgen on her way to scout the area several months ago. "The only other mills around are the one in Riverwood and the one in Falkreath itself, and those two are hardly close." she had said to him over a drink. "There are many lands to the southwest that have no good source of lumber, and of course I could always sell to the imperial garrison here in Helgen. I could even export some of my lumber to Cyrodiil if necessary." He had thought her very savvy, probably sharper than him. He had also thought her face very pretty, but there was an odd quality to her eyes. They seemed to shine in an unnatural way, or perhaps it was the combination of the hood and the candle light. He had seen strange eyes before, old Ganar Stone-eye had a false eye and it had never given him this feeling. He used to have a Khajit friend who's eye's were downright otherworldly, but still, somehow Hert's eyes stirred him.

He liked Hert he decided, as he sat up forgetting when he'd lain down. He thought he may even visit her if he ever wondered that far southwest. The Mill, if she had been successful would be all but finished now. Ready for business. Maybe he could help her put the finishing touches on the place, maybe her could spend the night, maybe the two of them could grow closer, maybe.

He swam back to shore, dried off and put his shaggy furs back on. He slung his quiver and bow over himself and started, refreshed and with full water-skin, back up the mountain.
...

"Cyrodiil." He thought to himself. The rich lush land to the south of Skyrim, was the seat of an empire started by the immortal in name Tiber Septim when he conquered the entire continent of Tamriel. His empire was of such long standing dominance that the natives of Cyrodiil are simply called impirials. He himself had impirial blood as evidenced by how his skin turned a light shade of bronze in places that got a lot of sun. However, after the oblivion crisis, the empire began a steady collapse added in part but an Elvan state, the Altmary Dominion of the Summerset Ilses. This culminated in their ruling group the Thalmor beginning the great war that would bring the empire to it's knees. The war was long and bloody and by many accounts one-sided. The Thalmor spread their influence throughout Tamriel. Eventually the signing of the white-gold concordat ended the war with what the empire likes to call a peace treaty, but many consider it a surrender. Now High-Rock, Skyrim and Cyrodiil itself are the only lands left to imperial rule, and the Thalmor have powerful embassies in all of them. However the white-gold concordat didn't stop the fighting as in response to it's signing a radical group of Nords calling themselves the Stormcloaks had started a civil war for Skyrim's independence. Something about the outlawing of the worship of a specific god, and thats about where he lost interest. The war did not concern him. He had no patience for a god or loyalty to the empire. All that mattered was the here and now.

It was always slow slogging back up this mountain the sun would be well on it's way down by the time he got back to camp. He found some snowberry bushes and the berries' cool edge and tart flavor were a welcome luxury. He had already eaten his second apple and was beginning to get pretty hungry. When he reached the scout point where he had squandered his chance with the elk earlier, he took a good long look around, and seeing nothing to indicate good prey dropped onto his belly and put his ear to the rock... Nothing, at least nothing that was in range.

He lay there for a long while waiting for something to wander into earshot. While there a thought occurred to him for smaller game, like a rabbit or a squirrel. He would listen to the trees and perhaps set a few snares, but his leather straps and thongs were back and the camp. He crouched and continued up the mountain an arrow ready and notched in his bow, stopping every now and then to put his ear to a trunk or listen for the scrabbling, chattering and perhaps fluttering, of prey in the trees.

As one can imagine, this attention to detail made his progress up the mountain even slower. The shafts of light coming through the trees were falling at ever more severe angles. The forest floor was growing dim when he abruptly came to a stop. He had heard a high-pitched screech like a blade being sharpened. The sound had come from a bush up ahead to the right. He knelt down, picked up a nearby stone and threw it to the right of the bush. As it landed a red and green flash erupted from the left side of the bush. He swiftly drew and shot. With a squawk and a thud the fat vibrant bird was pinned to a tree by it's neck. It was a pheasant, and a good colorful on at that. It gave a choked gargling cry as it thrashed about in agony. As quickly as he could he put a second arrow through it's head to end it's misery.

This was perfect, he thought as he pulled his kill off the tree. The meat alone could sustain him for a couple days, and the bright feathers he could trade for bread, more apples, he could even use them to talk Torolf into lending him another book. The bird was still bleeding profusely from the neck and this gave the hunter an idea, he could sell the blood to Matlara for her alchemy practices. He pulled the cork off his water-skin and drank several gulps before emptying it and holding it up to the blood spouting neck of the pheasant. Eventually he decapitated the bird and held it up by it's legs to speed up the process. Before long, his water-skin was heavy with blood. Meat, feathers, blood and bones; he may as well be set for life. He grinned as he set off in the direction of his camp.

Keeping a limited perspective has it's advantages, living for no more than tomorrow made these simple victories that much sweeter. He thought back to the times when the larger troubles of the world came directly to his door step. He had been playing hide and seek with young Hamming Torolf's son under the watchful eye of his mother Matlara. It was all pretend and play but he knew that he was actually teaching the boy valuable skills, such as how to appraise your surroundings, how to use light and shadows to your advantage, and how to read ones thought processes through the their eyes. The boy was getting very good in fact one occasion if the hunter hadn't spotted the book on the floor then he would never have found Hamming wedged into the rafters above the bookshelf.

Everything changed when Torolf came running home saying that Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of the hold of Windhelm had murdered Torig the high king of Skyrim and that civil war was on the way. From that day forward things were never quite the same. The citizens never treated him any differently but the Imperial legion stationed a large garrison in Helgen. The number of solders almost tripled and on several occasions his refusal to join the fight resulted in accusations that he was a Stormcloak spy. Luckily Torolf, Vilod, and on one occasion Ingrid spoke out in his defense. Still he was always a little more cautious when he chose to enter town.

He stopped abruptly as a flash of blue pulled him back to the present. Again? It was that mad butterfly, it alighted on his chest and he saw the hole in it's left wing, it was indeed the same one. He glanced around at his surroundings, the land was flattening out and the trees were growing thinner. He was almost home. The sun would soon dip beneath the western mountains and twilight would be upon them. He had to smile as he looked back at his chest. It this troublesome little thing insisted on following him around like this, he might have to name it.

Just then a wicked wind picked up and blew against his face. His eyes grew wide as he detected something faint but somehow unmistakable. Blood. Not the fresh blood of the pheasant in his hand but old congealed blood. Staining and sour. He peered searching into the gloom, and was just barely able to detect an unfamiliar lump protruding from the base of a tree.

He dropped and darted behind a tree just as an arrow flew by exactly where his heart had been. He dropped the pheasant and drew an arrow of his own preparing to retaliate, but as he drew back and took aim, a huge iron-clad nord man came roaring out of the bush to his right. Raised above his head flashing gold in the light of the dying sun was formidable sharp edged mace, and in his other hand was an axe. His axe. The one he used to chop wood. The bandits had no doubt sacked his camp; he had no home. He dived and rolled away from the man's devastating blow, then he turned and fired an arrow directly into the at his head. It glanced harmlessly off his metal helmet. He could her a low laugh as the nord wound up again. The hunter swiftly notched a another arrow, deciding to put this one through the bandits unarmored throat, but he was forced again to jump back as an arrow whizzed inches in front of his nose.

This was impossible. He had to run. As the nord charged forward again he turned and bolted back the way he'd come.

...

He barreled through the trees egged on by the battle cries of the nord. Every few second he'd hear an arrow impact a nearby trunk. They obviously hadn't found much of value at his camp and were now determined to kill him incase he had been keeping his riches on his person. Needless to say, proclaiming his poverty would not save him; but he knew something that might might buy him some time.

He hurdled a fallen log and found himself back at the scout point. He'd need to be quick with what he was about to do. But his pursuers would be looking into the setting sun and that gave him the advantage. He sprinted at the rocky cliff and slid on his hip over the edge grabbing the lip at the last second so he half fell, half scrambled directly down the face. As he dropped to the bottom he saw exactly what he had been counting on a small bolder about the size of a mead barrel he'd seen earlier. He grabbed it and with all the strength he could muster sent it rolling down the mountain, gaining momentum, leaving a dramatic and loud wake as it went.

He lay down as flat as he could and held his breath. Hardly a second later he heard them above him. "Where'd t hat milk-drinker go?"

"Over there, I see him! Hurry or we'll loss him!" The too shadowed figures jumped down landing a few yards in front of his face and tore off in pursuit of his phantom.

He slowly let out his breath, they'd be back in about a minute but for now he had a second to think. The berserker wore iron armor that covered his head chest forearms and legs. He carried a mean looking mace and the hunter's axe. The archer was the real puzzle, his armor had looked light and primitive, probably made out of some kind of tough hide; but he was good. He knew how to shoot from cover and any archer who would fire into a fray without worrying about his ally was either very dumb or very talented. It didn't matter where he went from here the archer could likely track him once he returned to this spot. They were fast and he was hungry and tired. He needed a plan. What did he have? What did he have? He had 20- no, 19 arrows 2 of them with blunt tips. He had his bow. His small filleting knife was back at the camp and a lot of good that would do him in a fight anyway. This wasn't much but perhaps it was good enough for a last stand. He grimly pulled out his water-skin and took a swig.

"Blah! What?" this wasn't water. He thought back. Oh right, this was pheasant blood. Pheasant blood huh? … this was a terrible idea, probably the worst idea he'd ever had, but it would have to do. Stowing his water-skin away he stood up and ran north-west.

...

They were on him a bit faster than he had planned but it mattered not. The sun had fallen and in the half light he waited for them to enter his sights. He heard them before he saw them.

"Are you sure he went this way?"

"Of course I'm sure you idiot, now relax, this is what I do."

"Chief won't be happy if we come back with just a handful apples."

"You don't think I know that? Now be quite you'll give us away."

Suddenly an arrow came flying down from the right and buried itself in the nord's shoulder. He screamed in pain and the archer quickly drew his own arrow and shot back at the high rocks where the hunter had been waiting for them. "Dammit I told you didn't I? He's up in those rocks, go get him. I'll go around to the left." Just then the archer ducked as another arrow whizzed by his head. "Damn! Wait a moment." Shaking and gritting his teeth the nord pulled the arrow out of his arm. "I think I see him. Do that thing you do, you know, the yell."

The massive nord didn't need telling twice, he let out a long bone-chilling roar that made the hunter flinch and shift to look. As soon as he did, and arrow stuck itself deep into his flank. He fell with a cry and started crawling and hobbling away.

"Perfect," said the archer. "Now you can go get him."

"I'll make you regret that shot!" the nord shouted as he bared down on the reeling and writhing hunter. The hunter drew an arrow and shot but he was off balance and the arrow sparked off the nords heavy chest plate. The hunter turned and limped between two close trees before falling feebly to the ground, desperately trying to drag himself away, eye wild with fear. The nord lined himself up, and with both mace and axe raised above his head, charged forward to end the hunters life with a proud battle cry. But, as he passed between the two trees something caught at his ankles and before he knew it he was falling, falling, falling onto a bed of spikes. Eleven arrows, half buried, their points aimed at the sky; and a few feet prior, a pair of arrows stuck into the into the tree at ankle height.

The yelling nord was impaled. The arrows at his chest were snapped by his chest-plate but those at his throat were not. He choked on blood and sputtered gasping for air, clutching at his throat. The hunter was quick as a cat, in less than a moment he had gotten to his feet and snatched up his fallen axe. He raised it above his head and brought it down hard on the back of the nords neck. Warm blood splashed over his face, and the bandit fell still.

The hunter stood up gasping and was immediately knocked over by the impact of an arrow in his back.

"Damned imperial scum," the archer screamed as he approached, notching another arrow.

The hunter turned and brought his axe up to swing it, but the second arrow found it's place in his forearm and the axe fell to the ground. The hunter dropped to his knees clutching scoured arm. Sharp panicked breaths exploded from his lungs, his eyes fell on the dead nord and he let out several dry heaves, his body left with nothing to throw up.

The archer followed his gaze and scoffed, "Don't tell me you've never killed before. Damned imperial milk-drinker, and it just had to be my friend didn't it." He whipped out another arrow and shot it into the hunters right shoulder. The hunter yelled in agony and fell onto his side. The archer knelt down and pulled out a dagger. "You've been a persistent little pest. I think I'll keep your balls as a trophy. The hunter's eyes widened as the dagger gleamed in the moonlight. The archer raised it up... and with a spine churning roar a black shaggy something flew into the archer, knocking him down and dragging him away.

The hunter lay there listening as the archer screamed and pleaded, then the sickening chokes, pops, tears, and crunches of his throat was ripped out. The hunter looked over as the huge wolf shook its lifeless victim. He reached down to his flank and grabbed the arrow, he bit the collar of his furs to avoid yelling as he pulled it out. When he uneasily sat up the wolf was looking at him. It was enormous, as big as any wolf you'll ever see. Jet black save for some scaring around it's nose and a long scar down it's closed right eye. The one eyed wolf considered him, and he it.

It was about that he registered that there were several other wolves walking around the clearing their eyes shining in the dark; some were sniffing and biting the nord, some sniffing the trees and one sniffing the empty water-skin laying on the ground.

"You're late Titus," said the hunter said in a low horse voice as he tried and fail to pull the arrow out of his impaled forearm. At this one of the smaller wolves squared him up and growled but the one eyed wolf snapped at them and they backed down. The hunter shakily stood up trying with everything he had to keep his knees from knocking. As he did, his scoured arm found the axe and weakly picked it up. The wolf one good eye flashed as he pulled himself upright and with his good hand yanked the arrow out of his shoulder. They stayed like that for what felt like forever, the hunter gripping his bloody axe in one hand and a bloody arrow in the other, staring down the wolf. And the one-eyed wolf staring back with eight pairs of eyes gleaming at his back. He smelled their breath, he heard their claws on the ground, and he saw them thinking.

Just when the hunter thought he might finally drop for good the one-eyed wolf walked over to the body of the fallen archer took it's leg in it's mouth and started dragging it away into the night. At that all the other wolves either moved to help or began dragging the massive nord away. The pack disappeared into the shadows of the trees.

The hunter waited for a while after they left. It was so quiet and still almost unnaturally so. For a moment he thought he might have died after all and been dragged away; that this was his after life, making his final stand forever.

Then the thud as his axe fell to the ground brought him back to his senses. He reached to feel the arrow in his back that one would require the attention of a healer. He stumbled a little as he started walking west. Down the slope. Out of the trees. Onto the north road. Riverwood was only a mile away but he doubted he'd make it on foot. He walked to the edge the swift flowing river and looked into it for a moment. He may never know the forces that governed little life, but some way, somehow he had made it.

"Thank you," he said to the stars and moon. He thought then that he felt a light touch on the back of his head, soft like a maiden's kiss. The last of his strength left him and he fell into the river.