A/N: Sudden spontaneous generation ~ experimentation. Warning: Genfic. Odd for me, I know. Some cruel violence in V, some naughty language throughout.
"Gildergreen Park"
I
Ash was wrestling playfully with an adult snow leopard when his small but wonderful evergrowth forest inside of the new park inside of Whiterun the city growing around the rejuvenated, replanted Gildergreen alerted him that an uninvited humanoid guest had entered it, with some specific intent in mind that Ash would probably find annoying, i.e. not simply strolling or walking a dog. That much happened several times a day, though, so he disregarded it. Whoever it was, it was some average Nord-human who could cast no spells armed only with an iron dagger and nothing like oil or flint and steel (which could've been for burning plant-life growth). It was . . . late morning, anyway, the Nord was likely only entering the park to eat their lunch in peace.
Ash had enchanted the park's entire area with a calming effect most sapient beings wouldn't even notice—it became difficult to hold onto hostility upon entering the park, upon trodding from stone to grass, in general. The weak-willed often forgot trifles they'd let vex them once they were a few steps in. The forest was perhaps a mile square in area, on the inside; if you looked at it from anywhere on the outside, it would not perceivably be larger than about 200 square yards—larger on the inside. Ash had meant it to stay smaller, but it had simply felt wrong, unbalanced, without certain volumes of life in it, and life needed space to flourish. It would keep growing, but not on the outside, as part of his creation of it. Any larger animals, especially predators, were only allowed to stay to heal from injuries, or petition Ash to heal them magically, or thin prey animals' populations once they became unbalanced.
Ash did what he could to prevent violence in his no-people-may-enter-without-me-around private glade portion of the supernatural forest, an approximately 100-yard square (measured from inside the forest; it was imperceptible from the outside) within the park; he'd enchanted the glade area strongly. Excessively so, mayhap. All natural, and most supernatural, animals temporarily forgot violence in there—if any matter was as simple as fight or flight, they'd fail to see fight as a possibility—unless unwanted natural or magical (undead, abomination, elemental, etc.) creatures entered uninvited. Ash had wanted a place of enforced peace for animals that couldn't regenerate but which some deity (around here, mostly Kynareth or Arkay or Mara) allowed to make it this far who retained the will to live which most often he felt had been mistreated unnaturally and deserved to stay alive, for Ash to simply concentrate and heal them magically and then send them home, and meditate. Breaking up fights was time-consuming and -wasteful.
The same person gets within 200 yards of Ash's glade—surrounded by trees laterally and vertically (canopy), and screened naturally from vision until you were around 5 yards from it—at a snail's pace but in a relatively straight line from where they'd entered the park-forest; a beeline, for a non-flying creature. It was Proventus Avenicci, Jarl Balgruff the Greater's preening prissy steward, whom out of hand Ash couldn't recall ever having entered the Gildergreen Forest. Also, not a Nord. Imperial. Ash couldn't recall ever having seen the man outside of Dragonsreach, for that matter. So this would be some special ask—Ash had been a thegn of Balgruuf's for at least a year and not once invited to court. Nor asked for . . . much of anything, except to attend peace talks and host a dragon, for a moment, in a palace crafted to host dragons. Thegn was an empty title, with no incomes or lands or holdings he didn't have to buy, to make him feel important and influential and like he was winning something. Ash especially did not want to know what Proventus or more likely Jarl Balgruuf would ask of him desperately like this. But if he dodged the summons to go kill a piddling ten bandits, or whatever, they'd only be waiting for another time he came to Whiterun to try to pressure or guilt or otherwise coerce him into doing something personally better suited to hirelings (sellspells or sellswords or both) later. It would loom over him and out of politeness he'd want to avoid Whiterun until jarl and steward died of old age. But no one would competently tend Ash's garden (Gildergreen Park) up to his standards in those 1–20 years. So best dealt with, or at least listened to, now.
So Ash allowed Proventus to proceed, but a man like that couldn't be allowed to feel too powerful or intimidating or comfortable or at ease outside of their natural habitat, the worked-stone cave (as wolves sometimes described castles, stonework, and human or mer shelters generally)—not for Ash, but to make sure Proventus would have some respect for the out-of-doors. So Ash un-evened all the terrain between Proventus and the glade, and had a few healing, not-territorial-here and not-hungry wolves watch the Imperial.
That was for the wolves more than Ash and the defense of nature in general; to train their cubs at stalking the weak, not only to do a thing for Ash—and in a safe environment to help avoid premature death, and to try to help Skyrim's wild wolf population get smarter; he'd slaughtered hundreds of them before he'd realized, "What the fuck—Skyrim's wolves are all suicidally stupid and aggressive; I should do something."
Proventus stumbled across a rather angry hawk entirely of his own poor luck; it left a few scratches about the man's bald head. Ash could heal those so well and easily he'd make the man feel 15 years younger, and have no lasting physical evidence of the lacerations ever having occurred, but Proventus would never ask Ash to heal him, so his pride would have nothing, and Ash didn't like to be bothered in his glade . . . but the man didn't try to kill any of the wolves, nor the agitated mother hawk and her litter, and this travail of his was probably at a direct-command-order of Balgruuf's and Balgruuf was a good, honorable man, although still a politician to some degree, so Ash didn't want to actively-consciously discourage his steward, or Balgruuf indirectly. So he'd give Proventus a healing salve free of charge (Proventus was free to just loiter in the park anytime, but quest-givers weren't allowed to enter to give him quests when he didn't want to be bothered) and he'd even apply it if the man deigned ask for somesuch. Proventus wouldn't do as much for anyone, anymore—he was an old, done man. Twenty years ago he might have done for his daughter or his now-dead unnamed wife.
II
Proventus breaches the glade. Almost every animal within earshot knew of his intrusion by then. Ash had temporarily suspended a few enchantments, or the man would have automatically been killed already, with Ash's hands completely clean of the act. Ash waits until Proventus can see that Ash is much stronger than the big white and grey cat—dumps the snow leopard on its back, avoids its three remaining kicking legs, and tickles his belly. The leopard only then notices Proventus and ends their game on the spot, running behind a common local deciduous tree at a pace probably faster than Proventus has ever seen a natural animal move before. Pah, sabrecats, Ash thinks; Mediocre.
Proventus greets: "Ash! Well met!"
"Proventus," Ash says, dusting himself off, turning to the steward. "Good morrow." Ash almost goes to shake hands or grip forearms ("unarmed!") with the man, then remembers again he's an Imperial, not a Nord. He'd skimmed the man's vitals and misread earlier. If Ash greeted him with Nord-appropriate strength he'd break Proventus's forearm or wrist or several fingers or maybe all those things. Anyhow, the Aveniccis don't like to touch. A cold hearth in that house.
Ash knew he'd been scratched, but he hadn't bothered to view Proventus remotely, so he didn't have to exaggerate his surprise upon seeing Proventus's head: "You're bleeding, steward."
"I had a disagreement with a large bird," Proventus says. Not as audibly pained as Ash expected him to be, based on the thin streams of blood running down him. Proventus touches his head, winces, looks at his hand with blood sticking to it. Ash sees a big glob of Proventus's blood fall over Proventus's left eye. It makes him sad. Ash should've prevented the hawk from attacking, or noticing Proventus's presence at all.
"This will not do," Ash says. He didn't want Proventus comfortable, but he wished no harm on the man. "How may I remedy these wounds?"
Proventus shrugs. These people don't know what I am, Ash reminds himself. They think I'm merely this lazy plot device-role, dovahkiin. "How would you help me, dragonborn?" Proventus . . . jokes? It's hard to tell until one of the sides of his thin mouth cracks a smile. Ash suspected the man possessed no humor; No—he does, Ash thinks. Father humor. He likes Proventus slightly more for it. "Would you Shout it better?"
"I could do whatever you could imagine," Ash says. Disclosing too much, but who cares, almost no one in Skyrim has any imagination or worldly wherewithal, and this one can't see past any holds Whiterun doesn't share a border with. Proventus clearly doesn't believe Ash, anyway. So Ash restarts small: "I have some divine healing spells." Proventus looks uncomfortable with that. "Alternatively, I always have about myriad salves and balms, for cuts and the like."
"What would you charge for a salve for a cut?" Proventus asks neutrally. He knows Ash for a merchant. He should, Ash owns most of the businesses in Skyrim's crown jewel.
Ash grins and jokes, "Five-thousand septims."
What Proventus charged Ash for his first piece of property in the hold. The Nord—no, Cyrodiil—snickers. Which from him is like a great whooping laugh from a common person.
Ash smiles. "No charge. That bird was . . . unkind to you." He gets out a rag and a small waterproof pouch from his backpack atop a massive tree stump he sometimes meditates on. Neither was actually in the backpack before, of course; Ash is in a storing-everything-in-extradimensional-spaces minimal-aesthetic phase; he simply makes a minor show of reaching into a side-pocket because if he conjured the things openly Proventus might call him a witch and flee, or shit himself, or bury his head in dirt, and Ash didn't want to un-man the steward, as funny as that might be. Humble, yes. Ash gestures with the rag: "This is clean—for the blood. May I?"
Proventus considers it but looks far too anxious to allow Ash to wipe up his blood. "I can manage," Proventus says, accepting the rag. Making yet more of a mess about his head.
Ash observes. "The bleeding's slowed." He opens the salve pouch's drawstrings. "Cover the cut with this. It'll feel cool, then warm, and eventually dissolve. I recommend you visit the house of Kynareth to cleanse yourself before returning to Dragonsreach."
Proventus nods. "Am I so predictable?"
"Yes," Ash says.
Proventus snickers.
"Meaning that you'd return directly to Dragonsreach if I didn't suggest such?" Ash says.
"Indeed," Proventus says. Blood no longer runs fresh over his face. He puts the rag through his belt and covers a fingertip with Ash's salve, held well within his reach. "Will this cause pain?"
"No," Ash says. "If you'd care for a demonstration, I could score myself on some of my healing subjects." He gestures towards a loose line of various wild animals and creatures of nature, from near and far. Next in line is a floating spriggan missing both legs, then a large adult mudcrab, then a young elk. All three seem bored, and at peace, though agitated to see a human here. As Proventus looks he sees a very old beaver amble out of the park's undergrowth and eye him suspiciously.
"I trust you," Proventus says. Which surprises Ash. The steward replenishes his supply of the thick greenish-white salve, for cuts and skin abrasions. One deep cut's covered; three, all slighter, that Ash can see remain.
"I interrupt you, I apologize," Ash says. Proventus rushes everything—the only reason he isn't bothering Ash with business is he's shocked to have been bird-struck; he's forgotten himself. "What business brings you among green things, steward?" Ash says neutrally. Not like "you don't belong," but like "I know you find this stuff messy."
"Oh," Proventus says. "It's, um . . . " He has to think. "Oh, dear, I'd forgotten. One of Jarl Balgruuf's children has been kidnapped, and requires rescue."
Ash shrugs.
"He's among a great pack of wolves," Proventus says.
"What, the Companions?" Ash says.
Proventus's lips threaten a smile, then return to neutrality to say, "No, literal wolves." He looks around, spots a great old white wolf missing both ears in Ash's line of supplicants. It's either new or he didn't see it before. "Like that one." The wolf sees the human point at him and perks up, stands from his seated posture; watches the Imperial.
"Ah," Ash says. "And this wolf pack . . . kidnapped a child? From Dragonsreach?" He almost grins.
Proventus tries not to let him speak after "child," and unkindly overlaps Ash, saying, "We know not how the child left the keep. It's Nelkir."
"Know you how he mixed in among a pack of actual wolves?" Ash says.
"No," Proventus says.
"Then how do you know he's with them?" Ash says.
"Far-eyes, hunters," Proventus says.
"No scrying from Farengar, I daresay?"
Proventus near-grins; Farengar's famously lazy, and no spellcaster. "Isn't mysticism magic outlawed?" Proventus says.
Ash shrugs. "I think it's just levitation and teleportation, but even so, who gives a shit?"
Proventus pales.
"The jarl can order it legal or illegal, banned or no," Ash says. "Skyrim has no high king. And surely it would be an appropriate use for such a spell."
"I suppose it would, at that," Proventus says, considering. "Though I doubt our court wizard knows its like; he's more a . . . books-type, I should say."
Ash nods. He's never seen Farengar cast anything but a sideways glance. "Apologies. I wondered only how you knew this."
"It's a worthy question," Proventus says.
"What would my jarl have me do?" Ash says.
"Bring his son home unharmed," Proventus says. "For this—"
"He may already be dead," Ash says. Proventus balks himself into sudden silence. "If it's a great pack, they'll eat a great deal. Humans to wolves are more appetizing than their own kind."
"We have word of the child alive as of the last eve, before sunset," Proventus says.
Ash doesn't like the highborn, pampered child's chances. Or landed nobility in general. Nepotism offspring. "No one saw the child—Nelkir—leave Dragonsreach?"
"No."
"Nor the city?"
"Nor the city."
"What if the boy meant to run away with wolves?"
Proventus hadn't considered that. "Bring him back."
"And if he desires to stay with the wolves?" Ash says.
"I will not believe that," Proventus says.
"I don't believe that's likely," Ash says. "But I warn you, I will not force the child to leave the pack if he wants to remain with them."
"You would leave a boy to wolves?" Proventus tries to shame.
"You already have," Ash says. As if emotional appeals would mean a thing to Ash. From humanoids they certainly wouldn't.
Proventus tries to say something else but chokes on it.
Ash says, "If the boy wishes it, I might," he says. "If you tell me truly, the boy's outside of man's rule, and under the law of tooth and claw and wind and grass. He's protected, as a whelp; within reason. The wild is indifferent."
"Don't lecture me, elf," Proventus says.
"Don't call me an elf, human," Ash says with no tone but warning. "I'm no such thing. That was an explanation of law in wild places, not a lecture. The boy has his own will; if he doesn't want to leave the pack, I'll not compel him to."
"Nonsense," Proventus dismisses. Pauses. "Do you think that likely?"
"In a spoiled highborn city-child?" Ash says. "I think it not at all likely. I only want you to understand that I don't traffic in children."
"By the gods and the glory of!—This wouldn't be human trafficking! It's reuniting a family!"
"Maybe," Ash says. "You don't know how or why the child went to the wolves. Mayhap he ran away, refused some bauble. More like he was kidnapped by some petty bandits for a ransom, from inside of Dragonsreach by magic and mischance, and outside the city the pack fell upon them, hungry, to their mischance. Perhaps it's something completely different. You're . . . the how and why of it matter to me."
"Not to me," Proventus says.
"I know," Ash says. "You're simply informing me of your jarl's will."
"Your jarl as well," Proventus says.
"Indeed," Ash says. "Sometimes I think you forget that."
"I haven't."
"I'll go speak with the child," Ash says. "However that goes, I'll likely travel to Dragonsreach to inform the jarl of all, and decide what needs doing if anything from then."
"If anything—one of Whiterun's citizens is a captive of wolves!"
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do!"
"Prove it."
Proventus's words abandon him.
Ash shakes his head. "You presume much." Proventus looks about to curse. "I appreciate Jarl Balgruuf's position in this, and his will. He wishes his lost child returned to Dragonsreach, yes?"
"Yes. Unharmed."
"Unharmed by me," Ash says. "If he's harmed himself, or already been devoured by wolves, I can't undo that." A lie; he simply wouldn't. Balgruuf has two other children more deserving of the throne. Though Ash doesn't believe anyone deserves to be given positions of authority simply for falling out of a certain uterus.
"Just so," Proventus says. He doesn't care about the child, only saving face, Ash sees. Millions have died for that reason on this planet alone, Ash thinks. "Kill the pack if you wish."
"Won't be necessary," Ash says. "How many wolves make this pack?" He hasn't surveyed all of Skyrim in a week. He knows only old information—of small packs, six or fewer adult wolves. Things can change quickly with the leavings that come from the Creation Club.
"We've been told numbers between twenty and sixty," Proventus says.
"That would be an exceedingly large pack for this country," Ash says. "Err. Province. If there are truly more than two of dozens I should thin them."
"I'm sure many shopkeeps in Whiterun would be happy for an influx of wolf pelts," Proventus says.
"How many people here know of this great pack?" Ash says.
"Few," Proventus says.
"Knowledge of such a pack would cause alarm," Ash says.
"Not of its dissolution," Proventus says.
"I won't lie," Ash says. For humanoids for rationalizations, for political reasons, he doesn't say. For nature, he might. "I won't say I killed the entire pack if I haven't."
"But if you thinned a pack, would you say that?" Proventus says.
"If asked, yes," Ash says. "I wouldn't be proud of it."
"When you sell my daughter animal pelts, does she ask you how you came by them?"
Ash grins—He thinks he's clever for knowing that. If Ash cared who knew that, no one would, and Adrianne would be long missing. "I don't normally sell her animal pelts," Ash says. "I mention it by way of honesty and understanding with you, and the jarl. I'm eager to serve my jarl, but I will not lie if I think it ill-suits the hold."
"What kind of lie would suit the hold?"
"'No one worships Talos here!'" Ash says.
Proventus pales significantly. "Don't—"
"—ask me questions you don't want answered," Ash overrides, growing tired of the steward and remembering such has happened before. He's never liked dealing with anyone but Balgruuf, in Whiterun's court, himself in Dragonsreach. Dumb rhetorical cunt, Ash thinks of Proventus. The Imperial can't read minds, but Ash wouldn't care if he could. He'd sooner talk with Irileth; or Balgruuf's brother, Hrongar.
Proventus nods, actually hearing Ash. Which to Ash is a pleasant surprise. Sometimes he's not as stupid as he looks, Ash recalls.
"So . . . you'll do it?" Proventus says.
"I'll find and go speak with the child to see what he wants. Don't tell the jarl I'll do ought else. He knows I'm willful."
"He does," Proventus begrudges. He tends to over-promise to his boss on behalf of others. And he knows this.
"Assuming the child's alive, I'll learn what he wants. Depending on what that is, I'm like to inform our jarl of it before I decide what to do next. If it's still anything to do with me. If the jarl would have me do anything." Proventus doesn't take his meaning. "Rather than begging it of the Divines . . . ?"
Proventus gulps. "I see. Very well. I'll share this with Jarl Balgruuf. Do you need me to mark on your map—"
"No, I'll find him," Ash says. "And the pack if he's with them."
Then he stares at Proventus, who coughs but doesn't start vacating the glade.
"If I'm not here, in this glade, I suggest you not enter it," Ash warns him. He doesn't mention that if Ash hadn't specifically allowed it Proventus would never have found it anyway. Best discourage return, though, Proventus is the type to "tidy up" nature—sweep up dust and dead leaves and mean well, but not allow nature to happen, i.e. if a fire starts he'd put it out rather than let it burn and thereby spread a disease throughout an entire forest, or keep a hungry field mouse from eating a torchbug because at this moment torchbugs aren't seen as pests but mice (and rats and similar rodentia) are. Or shoot a healthy wolf with a shitty Nord shortbow to prevent it killing a slow, old deer, both of which wandered into Whiterun, which was deliberately built safely out of hunting trails and then-wolf-packs' territory, and out of the way of nature generally. A dumb, fastidious, obsessive cunt, in more direct terms.
Proventus hears that and probably understands it, but doesn't start leaving.
"Please leave," Ash says.
"Great idea," Proventus says. As he speaks, an otter with a great amount of burns over its body climbs up Ash—Proventus didn't notice it approaching—to one of his shoulders and chirps.
Ash just looks at it and says—Proventus is certain—"Yes?," but in some language Proventus has never heard which reminds him of tree bark and wind on leaves, and starts massaging its neck. It leans into him and seems perfectly content. As if it doesn't feel the pain of very fresh burns.
Proventus watches as before his eyes the burns about the beast dissolve, like the froth of beer washed away by water. Though without the water. Then Proventus remembers his business and says, still watching the otter heal, "You're not going to . . . be about it, right now?"
"If I can concentrate, I'll locate the boy in under a minute and teleport there. The longer you stay here, the longer it'll take me to examine these last few supplicants," Ash says, gesturing at the patient, courteous line of animals. "That'll be a few minutes."
Ash stares at Proventus.
"You should put your jarl's son ahead—"
Ash runs out of patience. He wanted to cut Proventus's tongue out after "you should," then he waited to see what Proventus thought he should do. "You should not try to coerce me," Ash begins loudly, fighting to keep sharpness out of his tone. The otter flinches but doesn't flee. "The moment Jarl Balgruuf chose to name me thegn, I told him—and I know you witnessed this—I'll never treat any one resident of Whiterun hold better than any other resident of Whiterun hold, including all forms of life. Especially natural animals. I agreed to find Nelkir at all because I understood you were asking me to with the jarl's voice, not because you said it. Nelkir to me is only another animal, no better than any of these—" He gestures at his natural creature supplicants. "—or you, or Jarl Balgruuf, or húskarl Irileth or any of the watch, or even fucking Belethor. What I should do, steward, is solve problems larger than some hereditary ruler's son; there's a copse of trees in the Rift on fire right now, and a company of bandits marauding in the Reach. Have been for a fortnight. Both things are responsible already for the deaths of dozens of individual life forms large enough to be visible to a plain eye. Whereas here, for all you know or have told me, Nelkir may have simply wandered off."
Proventus probably stopped listening at some point; Ash didn't care. For him in that moment, it was a choice between put the steward in his place with words or by doing permanent damage about the steward's person, and as a coward Proventus would prefer the words, Ash knew, if given the choice. Not that anyone welcomed pain. Well. Certainly not Cyrodiils outside of the proverbial bedroom.
After a pause Proventus bows and says, "I'll leave you to your work, my thegn," then turns and exits. Not quite humble but close enough; and without Ash's leave, of course, but Ash was happier to see him gone than to explain that this glade belongs to the natural indigenous population of Whiterun hold—a population which includes no humans. There were a few points of strong nexus throughout Whiterun's natural areas where injured animals could go to enter this glade of peace and healing without putting feet near the developed, artificial city of stone and wood and alcohol and steel.
Ash almost says, "I haven't named my price," to stop Proventus. Better this way: by fair Nord etiquette and good form, Ash can name anything he wants and not help return Nelkir (if the child still lives and wants to come back) until it's paid. Huge mistake for Proventus to passively verbally agree to something like that after having insulted and attempted to domineer Ash; and Ash knows that Proventus knows that.
Ash sighs.
A few seconds later after Proventus is outside of the circle of trees and back in normal brush, Ash hears Proventus begin running. That relieves some emotional aggravation. The man stunk of fear the entire time, of course.
Proventus exits heading the wrong way. Ash doesn't bother correcting or asking an animal to guide him the way he intended, or anything else. If the Cyrodiil manages to keep the same direction (unlikely for a city urchin) he'll exit the wrong way, but will still inevitably exit into Whiterun-city. More likely he'll lose sense of direction, after which one of the enchantments Ash wove into the near-impossible-to-spot seams between Skyrim's material plane and elsewhere separating the outside of the Gildergreen Park from the inside will gently guide Proventus into whatever direction he wants to exit from (probably the way he came in; probably the quickest, most direct route-by-foot from the front, public entrance of Dragonsreach) so as to get him to vacate with expedience. Haughty humanoids tend to find the park's small forest unwelcoming.
Ash hears a squirrel swearing (in its own way) at the back of Proventus.
III
Ash is so frustrated even then that he mass-heals all his supplicants, after briefly checking the cause(s) of all their injuries. Largely unnatural—over-hunting humans' cruel, passive traps; over-deforestation; Stormcloak and Imperial soldiers' harassment, alike; and so on. The otter's burns came from a careless drunken poacher's cook fire in the Topal Sea—unnatural, though at least an accident rather than deliberate cruelty, which was even uglier.
The snow leopard quickly and painfully regrows its missing limb.
Ash excludes two from the mass-heal: a lizard and a predatory insect from Argonia who got into an uncommonly lame fight with each other, as a result of which both became disfigured. He takes a minute with them, going through both their memories and thought processes, then assessing the populations of both creatures within a few miles of where the fight occurred (remotely), then decides Argonia's better without both of them, and so feeds one to an unusually large window lace-weaver from an alley in Whiterun (city) that wandered into the park, and kills then gives the other to a visiting dignitary goblin of the Long Tooth tribe in Cyrodiil staying in Gildergreen Park for perhaps another few days named Dakenibomaz who as a noble was loath to hunt for himself.
Then Ash (remotely) locates Nelkir, which takes about five seconds: forest in Falkreath hold, amidst 37 wolves. Ash is surprised that's all true, and that they didn't already eat the child. Very large pack, though. As Skyrim (Expanded) goes it may need some thinning. He'll analyze the pack closely on site. Ash breaks into Nelkir's mind and reviews his movements from now backward until noon yesterday at high speed until he gets bored. His first guess was right, though he has to (remotely) search the memories of several dead, partially-eaten bandits to verify. Through some typical behind-the-curtains jankassery, Nelkir was technically kidnapped by a group of eight bandits to be ransomed within Whiterun hold, and then the roving huge pack of wolves fell on them. No bandits survived, fortunately. Pretty long path on foot from where that happened—near North Brittleshin Pass—to where they are now: near Evergreen Grove, in Falkreath hold . . . . Whatever. Foolish to try to fully know any creature's mind.
He makes himself much more ethereal than he'd normally be and unnaturally odorless, then teleports to about 100 feet away from the wolf pack. It's overcast there in Falkreath, raining, dim. Seems about right. Ash always loves rain. He can feel it though it won't interact with his body in this state; he can still smell and taste it, can still feel nearby life enriched by it—feeding, growing. He walks through the pack, only a tenth of whom so much as dimly sense the new presence. He doesn't know this pack. They're new. And fat, indolent. Not even moving now, during the cool day; resting under tree cover. At least one of them will get sick. Far too large a pack. He'll deal with the human nepotism-child first.
"Nelkir," Ash calls.
The child can just barely see him. Ash steps lightly, but won't create any noise walking anyway, or leave any trail. Nature parts for him to pass through, making no marks, damaging nothing. A ghost. Once he sees Ash, the child recognizes him. He greets Ash with an unfortunately arrogant, familiar, "Kind of nice being in on the secret, isn't it." It's not a question.
I should kill you and spare Whiterun the trouble, Ash thinks. No, he agreed to at least learn the child's will first.
"Do you like being with wolves?" Ash says. Most of the canis lupus within earshot are aware there's some other thing about, by now. Those are all trying to locate him by nose, which won't work.
"Yeah," Nelkir says. "They don't bother me."
"Would you rather be back home in Dragonsreach?" Ash says.
"Yes," Nelkir says. "I can have food whenever I like there. And it's less stinky."
It's not the pack's nest here; the smell's not bad.
"Would you like me to send someone to bring you back?" Ash suggests.
"I suppose," Nelkir says. "What would you like me to do?"
"For your arrogance, be eaten alive by the pack," Ash says. Honesty feels good.
Some of the wolves begin yipping, tucking tails between legs. Ash makes his body, by any measure, much like an ancient spriggan's, and less transparent. All wolves which can see him relax somewhat, able to find the presence, if only visually.
"For true?" Nelkir says, fearing.
"I sought you to know what you wish," Ash says.
"I'd rather wish myself home, back in bed," Nelkir says.
"No wish necessary."
" . . . than devoured."
"That was no threat," Ash says. "You asked what this one wants, and now you know."
"Oh."
"Is that the truth of it; all you want is to be back in Dragonsreach?" Ash says.
More wolves calm at the sight and smell of a spriggan. Some kowtow to the malevolent spirit, though it's speaking Tamrielic rather than Spriggan, or maybe Sylvan.
"Yes," Nelkir says.
"This is well," Ash says. He considers Balgruuf the Greater, and then Proventus. Fuck it, he decides, frustrated with this distraction from his work—this is better suited to Nya Alfhildr. Or sellswords. Or the watch of Whiterun, or Falkreath. "How soon would you like to be home in Dragonsreach?"
" . . . How soon could I be home in Dragonsreach?"
You'd have been a lesser waste of matter sprayed on your mother's back, Ash thinks. "As soon as you like."
"Could I be home two moments ago?" Nelkir says.
"If you hadn't decided to waste my time, yes, you could have been."
Nelkir likes Ash's implication, and misses the words. "You could travel back in time and get me home before I even asked that?!"
"Yes."
"Then I choose then, then."
"No."
"No, I can't choose then?"
"No as in you can choose anytime you like, but you're trifling and being insubordinate, and churlish, so I won't grant you just any time of arrival, or means of travel. Now I'll grant you what pleases me."
Nelkir says, "If I'd said at once 'please get me home right now,' would you have done that?"
"You'll never know," Ash says.
"Will you take me home now, please?"
"I will," Ash says. "I want to teleport you; to most quickly and safely do that, I need to touch you. May I do that, skinny human?"
"You may do as you wish," Nelkir says.
Ash touches Nelkir's hand,
IV
and they're perhaps 15 feet into the air—hovering—in the greathall of Dragonsreach, between the throne and the dining tables. Ash stays about 60 per cent opaque but doesn't tamper with Nelkir's appearance at all, and still no one seems to notice either of them, so Ash quickly levitates them down to ground level, then sets Nelkir down gently as if through a down pillow. Ash stays as a spriggan matron, for now, because fuck them.
"Nelkir!" Jarl Balgruuf the Greater says, actually getting up off his throne. He merely walks to welcome his youngest son back home safe. Nelkir runs to greet his father.
"Father!" Nelkir says loudly.
They share a very jank embrace.
Ash discards his recent enchantments, and looks like a mundane version of himself. Which in Skyrim now doesn't really resemble anything, though in fairness the closest very common match, it seems to Ash, is the general concept of the Breton race, i.e. half-elf and half-human, though he's closer to a dryad or a nymph. People assume he's some form of pure mer because he's far too tall to be a Breton. He'd prefer to be called Ash or a druid rather than or before any other label. Or thegn. Or daddy.
"Weren't you just a spriggan?" Balgruuf says.
"I just looked like one," Ash says. "Now I look like something else."
" . . . Ash," Balgruuf says.
"My jarl." Ash kneels, out of respect.
Irileth gets close, and briefly makes eye contact with Ash. They share a smile. She has a sword out, as ever. Ash appears to be unarmed, and anyway has no weapons in hand.
"Who else could do that?" Balgruuf asks.
"As I did, in Skyrim? No one," Ash says.
Balgruuf smiles. "My steward isn't even returned from the new park yet," he says. Ash rises. "I underestimate your efficacy."
"Most do," Ash says.
"Thank you, my thegn," Balgruuf says. "You've done Whiterun a great service."
"I did you a great service," Ash says. "Whiterun never noticed the lordling's absence."
Balgruuf shrugs. "Aye. A great service, nevertheless. What boon would you have of me?"
"Two thoughts occur to me," Ash says.
"What are they?"
"Either one, you owe me a great service at a time of my choosing," Ash says. Balgruuf doesn't like that. Ash knew he wouldn't. "Or, you agree in writing signed and witnessed that no one will ever fell even a single tree in the Gildergreen Park, under pain of swift death, for all time."
Balgruuf doesn't love the second option, but it's also a trifle to him, easily granted. He's not yet so much as stepped into the park. Or even out of Dragonsreach, except for the High Hrothgar summit months ago since dragons returned to Tamriel. "Done," Balgruuf says. "I must caution you, I can't promise to prevent any single tree in Whiterun from being felled."
"I didn't say in Whiterun, I said in Gildergreen Park. The area will never grow—we should map it out with an Imperial cartographer. Update the city map as well. Whiterun and the exterior perimeter of the park, I mean, don't bother with the interior of the park itself. Anyway I'm not really asking you to prevent trees being killed, though I hope you and your watch will try. The point is . . . if a sapient creature kills a tree in the park, they die; a life for a life."
"There are some who would feel the life of a tree is not equivalent to that of a plant," Balgruuf says.
"Irrelevant," Ash says. "Weasel words. I know some who would say that the amount of potential life in one tree leaf is worth more than that of even the greatest human. Excepting Talos. This agreement, between the jarl of Whiterun and myself in perpetuity, establishes no precedent, only bans needless destruction inside of one small park inside of the crown jewel of Skyrim, and includes a punishment for violating that ban. A local ordinance, enforced strictly. In the formal agreement we should not equivocate. Simply say such as, 'In this small area called Gildergreen Park within view of Jorrvaskr inside the city of Whiterun in the hold of Whiterun in the province of Skyrim of Tamriel, should anyone fell a tree, they forfeit their life.' And if someone bewitches or possesses or coerces someone else to do the work of cutting the tree down, whomsoever ordered the act dies, not the person whose hands unwittingly wielded the axe. Assuming they didn't plan to do that to free themself of responsibility."
"Agreed," Balgruuf says. "The environment isn't destructible anyway."
"Just so," Ash says.
Balgruuf grins.
Ash hears a great oaken door close, and then the slow flopping of fine boots. Proventus has entered Dragonsreach.
"So if someone cuts down a tree in that park, they'll die?" Nelkir asks of Ash.
"Effectively," Ash says. "The objective is for no one to kill a recreative park."
"It seems cruel," Nelkir says.
"Trees are just as alive as you or me or Irileth or your big brother and sister, or your father," Ash says. "If someone killed one of them—a person you cared about—simply because they wanted to be slightly warmer of a night, or because they were bored, would you not expect your jarl to do justice to them? Or order it, anyhow."
"I see," Nelkir says.
"I care not who swings the sword, or axe, or whatever," Ash tells Balgruuf. "I'll do it, if you want me to. It needn't distract any of the watch from their normal duties. I'll know, anyway. Or you can do it, for all I care. So long as it happens within . . . a week of the tree's destruction."
"Why one week?"
"Depending on the size of the tree, they may be ending five years of life or twenty or three-hundred," Ash says. "Another of the same tree must be replanted in the same spot, as a consequence. If it's a sapling of under a month of growth, then perhaps longer. The point is proportion; life for life, as I said. Natural life. Before we sign and copy the order, or edict, whatever you like, we'll reason all that out."
"How long do I have to consider such terms?" Balgruuf says.
"You already did," Ash says. "I'll be generous: today. Before dark. We have—" He looks to the windows for the sun's angle. "Approximately six hours of light left. Default, and I choose everything without negotiation or discussion."
"And if I decide you ask too much?" Balgruuf says.
"If you said that, your son would be back with the wolves before your next breath," Ash says. "Believe that. Proventus failed to negotiate with me, a price or compensation, before we verbally agreed I would do this thing for you—that is the consequence."
"The park's of no concern to me," Balgruuf says—agreeing with Ash, not dismissing. "I care only for my son, in this matter."
"Good," Ash says. "I care for all life equally, in this matter. Plant life seems immobile, but it's no less valid than human life, or mer life, or animal life in general. I mention human and mer first because I know people generally regard themselves as above the rest. I don't."
"I know," Balgruuf says.
Proventus finishes his ponderous walk from the entrance to his boss just then. "Akatosh's glory, the deed's already done?!" he says at Ash, Nelkir and Balgruuf at once.
"Indeed," Ash says.
"Great job negotiating," Balgruuf says sharply.
"Negotiating?" Proventus says, looking from Balgruuf to Ash.
"Negotiating," Ash affirms.
They draw the terms up quickly, and agree to summon—separately—an Imperial cartographer, and out of formality a Reachman Forsworn cartographer, and one of the Stormcloak remnants if any would do this, all to travel on Ash's coin; he'll escort the Forsworn himself if they're willing to work in another hold, mostly to keep them from murdering anyone outside of the Reach, but formally to keep them from being persecuted or oppressed by anyone. They haven't let Ash take the whole of the Reach back for them yet, though they have formally allowed him to at least join their faction; so better than vanilla, at the least.
For the time being and subject to some retroactive re-measurement, they call Gildergreen Park slightly larger than it is on the outside in three dimensions—115 yards on all sides, and however tall the Gildergreen is (not a match for the higher-placed Dragonsreach, but taller now than the Temple of Kynareth or Jorrvaskr)—with the proviso that it shall never grow larger in area than it currently is. Ash is surprised when no one even asks him, "What if it spreads, though?" or "How will it not grow larger, if no one can cut down any trees?" but he'll take what he can get to keep some nature and peace inside of Whiterun. In front of the whole court, well before dark, Proventus reads the legal document aloud, and then Jarl Balgruuf the Greater and Ash (Víðarr Sigvaldr Asklund) sign it, making it law. Proventus begins making notifications to post about Whiterun and have shouted aloud as well—on Ash's coin—and around Gildergreen Park. Ash leaves a purse with 250 septims in it—shouldn't cost more than 75 total—for all that, and has Farengar copy the legal document five times (1,500 septims because he's greedy enough to ask Ash for more than his first offer, and Ash doesn't care about riches): one for Solitude's records, one for his, one for the sitting emperor of Tamriel, and two backups for Balgruuf's court, plus the original to stay framed in Dragonsreach on Ash's coin (400 gold; hugely overpriced, for crafting and materials and installation, but whatever).
V
Ash considers walking from Whiterun city to wherever the pack was before and tracking them to wherever they are now, to let his frustration leave him, but then he thinks of any one thing he'd rather be doing outside of dumbass Aurbis and gets impatient and teleports to where they were.
As he arrives—no supernatural camouflage, only himself as he is and looking a lot like a typical denizen of the Tamriel area—the last few wolf pack members are leaving. They're running roughly northwest. Ash decides to unique-identify a few of them—what he guesses is the pack's alpha, and five others—which he does as he flies upward to about 100 feet above ground level, higher than anything nearby, for a clearer view. The pack's spread over an area of at best 20 yards, packed far too tightly, but whatever, Skyrim's wolves act . . . wrong. Then Ash gets several times higher, not at such a rapid ascent speed, and chooses to just wait for two hours out of curiosity. As he does that, he traces his six tagged wolves' movements backward at high speed for five days. He would've been better to wait one hour, he decides with that new information, but he waits so quickly that the two hours are up by then and from his perspective only took a few seconds to transpire. The wolf pack meanders, but at a glance essentially went north and stopped again one hard pace off the road in Whiterun hold, near Broken Fang Cave. They make a boundary of one adult wolf-pace off the path, which is strange, and the pack wraps around the road with very little space between each wolf.
Ash wants to try a direct and peaceful approach, but he's near-certain that would be too subtle for this lacking pack so he tries the brute strength approach, though he does it respectfully. He chooses a 12-foot bullwhip made of three cowskins (who died either of natural causes or because of others' cruelty) as his weapon. He lands about 50 feet from the center of the pack, unfurls the whip, and walks normally toward them until any one wolf growls at him. Or . . . does anything but watch him.
They're pretty bad—he gets within 15 feet of the nearest wolf before anything happens. And then closer. With wolves in nearly every other world Ash's visited, such would never happen. They would've seen him before he got within 50 yards, not mere feet away. One wolf growls at him, another bares teeth. They don't understand what the whip is, but that's normal. Ash can just barely reach them with it, though he doesn't try to, only keeps it close and arrayed to crack quickly—makes sure it doesn't catch on anything. None of the wolf pack charges him yet, though about half of them get up off the grassy tundra and stretch and watch or even begin howling, to alert the rest of the pack, or yowling and prancing about, excited.
Ash lets go of all his frustration, centers himself, calms. Don't be cruel; don't be unfair. Be indifferent, he reminds himself. He won't smell human to them. He won't smell like a living thing. Or a dead thing. They'll smell good cloth, leather, and wild growing things; creation. No sweat or fear, not his current diet. The pack's confused about this—he should smell like men or mer to them; the pack grows uncertain, hesitant, fearful.
On their way here they rolled over, like a wave of fur and death, a few bandits (a good thing), a novice necromancer and a few animate skeletons (good), and some animals (deer, elk, rabbits; good, but only because until now all three of those species were even more overpopulated in Skyrim in general than wolves), all of those things either reeking of fear or incapable of it (undead); no one's faced off against this pack, resisted them, stood up to them recently. Especially not humanoids. The bandits tried to run. The necromancer was asleep. Ash makes eye contact with every wolf he can, challenging, but he doesn't show teeth.
Ash finds the alpha eventually. Which should've been almost immediate. Not that such a huge pack would be easy to manage. This pack's alpha is relatively young, younger than about a third of them. A horde, a swarm, really. Rabble. The alpha's no larger than average among this swarm. He has very few injuries, none of them disfiguring.
Ash's bullwhip is simple, plain leather, crafted without magic. No blade at the end, no metal, no diamond, nothing fancy. He'd normally wield one he made himself, he learned leatherwork and crafting bullwhips specifically over the course of years, but as much seemed wrong here somehow; he'd engaged the services of a craftsperson in Daggerfall to make him this one. Only human, but excellent; what passed as a master among humans in Tamriel. That had been some 10 years ago.
Ash will probably have to kill this alpha, but he'd sooner only hurt him. Cause him momentary pain but permanently teach him to yield quickly or at least be much more wary in general. Not a limb; Ash doesn't want to cost the pack / rabble their alpha, only thin their herd.
The wolf pack's alpha strides toward Ash, with very little fear. As he'd expect of an alpha; though with a pack this size there should be no fear against a single threat as small as Ash (i.e. not a giant), only weariness and power and strength and experience. Weak.
Ash strides toward the alpha wolf. The others swirl about Ash at around eight feet away from him, usually closer—close enough to dash in and nip at his heels and dash back out, far enough that he won't step on and break any of their feet by accident. If they try to nip at him, distract him for the alpha to attack, he'll punish them harshly. He's quick enough. And he doesn't need to see to fight. He considers blindfolding himself just to fuck with them, but they're so stupid that probably wouldn't be cause for concern for them.
Ash lowers himself slightly, stays loose, ready to move in any direction at once.
The alpha stops 15 feet away from Ash.
Ash keeps moving toward it, and stops closer than it likes, almost closer than it can bear, about six feet from it. It bares teeth at 10 feet. Hackles rise, it lines up to pounce. It growls at six, so Ash stops there. Doesn't back away.
After two seconds the alpha stops growling, relaxes but doesn't close its jaws.
Ash steps about a foot closer.
The alpha launches itself at Ash.
Ash cracks his bullwhip and steals the alpha's right eye before it can reach him, and steps three feet to his left (its right) as late as he can wait to move to make it miss him completely. Ash closes his eyes as he side-steps.
A wolf behind Ash sees his back and lunges low. He hears and feels this. He can smell it too, though that wouldn't be precise enough for combat. If it made contact with him it would only rip boot leather, but he's already angry with this pack—no true wolves—so he doesn't let it save any face. Or life. He waits until its teeth are less than a paw's width from his foot, then slams his foot into its skull through the top, breaching, in a direct, violent stomp without looking at it or needing to. Which is a warning to the other 35 wolves not to try that again. There's a dull thump and a wet, dim crunch, and then the rest of its corpse rolls forward onto the ground and Ash's foot goes the rest of the way through its skull and leaves a jagged heel-print in the dirt and grass below the wolf's head. It's a small enough wolf that its skull doesn't swallow his entire foot—only his heel goes all the way through its brains, so all Ash needs to do to disengage from the fresh corpse is step out of its mess, rather than shake or pull loose with effort. The wolf's dead too fast to cry out. It may have felt the pain for an instant. Blood pools in the new depression on the ground.
The wolves around Ash back off, giving him much more space.
The alpha's howling and bleeding, pawing at its head like maybe the blood's coming from above its eye. Ash opens his eyes to assess: the alpha's eye is, at a guess, in scattered pieces—some about 30 feet behind Ash, some scattered between the alpha and Ash, some sticking to his whip, and some left behind in the eye socket. Not recoverable without magic. Some connective tissue ripped out, and lies exposed on the wolf's snout. The alpha claws at its snout, confused, crying. Doesn't yield.
Before the alpha decides what to do next—Ash doesn't need to, but allows it to get back into fight mode, to recover as much as it's going to be able to before the fight ends—Ash takes its other eye. This is a little unfair, but he's not going to take it back. If the wolf were smart it would put together that this tall humanoid-looking thing not only inflicted pain upon him from too far away for it to scratch or bite him, but did that and stole one of its eyes and killed one of its pack without looking away from it. It's hugely outmatched. A smart wolf would've rolled onto its back then.
Then Ash has absolutely won, but the alpha's too shocked to know it. Ash lets it cry for a few seconds, for the pack to see and hear and process all this. Ash looks around to see if any of them will step in, or lick-treat its two gaping wounds, but none do.
So Ash, keeping aware of all the other wolves but with his eyes on the alpha, walks to the alpha. His footsteps make no noise unless he wants them to; and he wants them to, but the alpha doesn't seem to hear Ash's footsteps over the pain and its own crying. Not his problem. It doesn't seem to hear the dry rustling sound of Ash's whip dragging along the ground, either. A smart wolf would gather that means "threat" somehow—it's been there the entire time, and it must've heard that before—and show him its belly before it's too late. This alpha doesn't do that. It may have forgotten it's in combat. Or was designed without survival instinct.
Ash crouches and wraps his off-hand around the alpha wolf's neck. It freezes, surprised at the contact, but doesn't understand who's doing it until it's far too late; Ash closes his hand quickly, once he has a grip on its flesh rather than its fur. There's something like a heavy exhale, an awkward huff of breath. The alpha wolf goes near-silent, lacking a functional throat and larynx. Its body tries to get blood to and from the brain, tries to breathe. It'll take a few minutes to die. Air doesn't reach its brain. Nearly all the blood circulating through its neck pours out, inside or outside of its skin.
Another wolf tries to get its teeth in the back of one of Ash's knees. But it starts its dash at his back from nearly 20 feet away. Ash doesn't want to take the time to kill any more wolves in combat, or try to warn them "yield or die" by maiming them first, but it seems unfair to kill another without thinking so he tries to warn this one off by slashing its nose vertically in half via bullwhip. It screams and folds back into the crowd, fleeing and bleeding and crying. It'll take a while, but that will heal. Well. It's pretty stupid, it may not heal. It may turn gangrenous and spread to its brain and kill it before it gets smart enough to avoid aggravating the area, or touching anything dirty with the open wound. Ash doubts any of the rest of the pack will help feed it.
Ash looks around for another challenger; he's surrounded. No one else challenges him.
Some of the wolves accept Ash as their new alpha, though he's clearly no wolf. They lie down. Some roll to the side and show him their bellies—ask for mercy—when he looks at them.
What Ash is trying to do isn't working.
He tries telepathy—in simple Sylvan, then Jel, and not Tamrielic or maybe Spriggan or Goblin—but the pack is . . . unnatural, artificial. They have no functional brains.
Quick and dirty it'll be, then.
Ash examines all remaining 35 of them, casting a mass pacify spell so they'll stop trying to attack, forget that they were challenged, accept him as a friendly.
Ash takes the five toughest and conjures a decent, simple katana not of this world and stabs through each of their brains, so fast they feel no pain.
After the first of those, the pack tries to mob him, seeing a threat again. He's out of patience, so he uses a strong sleep spell on the entire pack. One resists (he used the bare minimum spell) so he casts another spell to reward its resilience or luck: he turns all of its blood into air at once. It coughs and tries to flee but only and straight down. Its eyes and heart explode. And some other organs Ash doesn't track.
Ash stabs the remaining four tough wolves just like the first.
He wanted them to self-select and earn the right to live by fighting each other for it. That seemed better. He didn't want to intervene so much—he wanted an immediate solution rather than allowing them to nearly all starve to death over slow time. Some would kill or fatally wound each other in direct competition for food, but that could take weeks or months or longer. He would've had them choose two-thirds of the pack to die if they wouldn't fight each other. They were incapable, so Ash chooses for them to be done with it quickly. Nature's not doing its job with this pack; something unnatural. Wrong.
That's seven dead. Thirty left. Still out of patience for this, Ash selects the weakest 20 of the pack and swaps to a very sharp steel longsword, and beheads them quickly, without magic. He just walks to the target, picks their head off the ground by their snout, and swings high once through each neck.
Then he bathes in the Hjaal River, changes clothes, cleans the three weapons he used, and gets on with his life.