4th of Evening Star, 4E 175
The thick canopy of Valenwood's ancient trees loomed over the small encampment, their twisting branches casting elongated shadows under the light of twin moons. The air carried the scent of damp earth and moss, mingled with the faint aroma of crushed herbs simmering in a nearby clay pot. Within a humble tent of woven reeds and animal hides, a newborn's first cries pierced the quiet night.
"She is strong,"
Murmured a deep, weathered voice. Caelir, the child's father, crouched beside the birthing mat where his mate, Sylwen, cradled their daughter. Sweat still glistened on her brow, but her golden eyes held nothing but warmth as she gazed at the tiny life in her arms.
"She fought hard to take her first breath,"
Sylwen whispered, gently brushing the soft, dark strands of hair on the infant's head.
"She will need that strength."
Caelir nodded, his gaze steady.
"We should name her well. A name fitting for a huntress, one who walks the untamed paths."
Sylwen tilted her head thoughtfully.
"I'm thinking... Arthevan - Keen One Who Walks an Unseen Path."
Caelir smirked.
"An old name, but one that carries power. The wilderness will test her. She must be swift, silent, and keen of eye."
"Then Arthevan she shall be,"
Sylwen whispered, placing a gentle kiss on her daughter's forehead.
"May the gods watch over her."
5 Years Later
The sun filtered through the dense foliage, dappling the forest floor in a mosaic of gold and green. Arthevan, now a spirited child, darted between towering tree roots, her small fingers brushing against rough bark as she ran. Her father's amused sigh followed close behind.
"Slow down, little cub."
She ignored him, instead spinning on her heel to face him with wide, inquisitive eyes.
"Why is the grass green?"
Caelir chuckled.
"Because Y'ffre willed it so."
"But why not blue? Or red like blood?"
"The forest has its way, Arthevan."
She frowned.
"That doesn't answer my question."
He sighed, kneeling to ruffle her hair.
"Some things simply are. Now, come"
"Why does the clan only eat meat?"
She interrupted.
"There are so many plants and fruits! Maybe they taste good? Maybe they could be yummy!"
Caelir's expression grew serious.
"We do not break the Green Pact. That is our way."
"But why?"
He hesitated, then only smiled.
"You ask too many questions, little one."
But her doubts had already taken root.
10 Years Later
The forest was silent, save for the rustling of leaves beneath their cautious steps. Arthevan, now a young huntress in training, clutched her bow with steady hands. Her father led the way, his keen eyes scanning the brush for movement.
"Tell me, Arthevan, what do you see?"
She paused, tilting her head.
"Tracks. Fresh. A stag?"
Caelir nodded approvingly.
"Good. You are learning."
As they stalked their prey, he spoke again.
"Our clan follows Y'ffre. But there are other gods who guide the hunt."
Arthevan glanced at him.
"Like who?"
His eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"The Daedric Prince of the Hunt, Hircine. Hircine is the true master of the chase, the one who watches over predator and prey alike."
"Then why do we not follow him?"
Caelir hesitated before answering.
"Because Y'ffre's ways are of balance and order, while Hircine's is of instinct and survival. Our people say the hunt is sacred, but they bind it with rules that make us weak. Hircine does not demand that we deny our nature. He rewards those who hunt well, who embrace what they are."
Arthevan's fingers tightened around her bow.
"Then why hide what is true?"
Caelir smiled softly.
"Because tradition is a cage. And those who fear change will always guard it."
She understood.
Later that day, Arthevan entered her mother's alchemy laboratory for her scheduled lesson in the art of potion and poison crafting. The scent of crushed herbs filled the air as Arthevan watched her mother work, her hands deftly grinding ingredients into fine powders.
"Pay attention, Arthevan. The right balance of ingredients makes all the difference."
She did watch, but her eyes were drawn to the table where Sylwen had set aside an assortment of plants—mushrooms, roots, and leaves.
"Mother…"
She hesitated.
"Why are you using plants? I thought we were not supposed to?"
Sylwen stilled, then exhaled.
"Some things are too valuable to waste. We do what we must to survive."
Arthevan studied the plants, then met her mother's gaze.
"The Green Pact doesn't make sense."
Sylwen did not argue.
10 Years Later
Arthevan had always been careful. Every hunt was done in secrecy, every prayer to Hircine uttered far from prying eyes. She knelt beside the slain deer, its lifeblood still pooling into the earth. She ran a steady hand over its flank before unsheathing her dagger, carving the sacred symbol of Hircine into its hide with deliberate strokes. Her voice was little more than a whisper, a reverent murmur carried by the wind.
"Prince of the Hunt, I honor this kill. As predator and prey, we follow your sacred cycle. May my skill bring your favor, may my spirit remain unbroken."
She didn't hear the hunter approaching. Tavin, a seasoned tracker, had been trailing an elk through the underbrush when he first glimpsed her through the trees. He had only intended to pass by, but something made him stop. The way she crouched over the carcass, the strange movements of her blade—it wasn't butchering, nor was it a simple mark of claim. He crept closer, careful not to disturb the forest's hush, until the pattern in the deer's flesh became clear. A symbol. A Daedric symbol. His breath caught. Her words reached him next, quiet yet unmistakable. He felt the weight of them settle in his chest—a name that had no place among their people. Hircine. His stomach twisted. This was no mere mistake, no reckless act of a wayward hunter. This was heresy. Tavin took a slow step back, then another, his instincts screaming at him to leave before she noticed him. He needed no further proof. The elders had to know. With one last glance at the girl and the offering she made, he turned and disappeared into the trees, moving swiftly toward the village.
By the time Arthevan returned, the village already knew. She was confronted by the entire clan, waiting for her. One of the clan's elders walked towards her, stopping right in front of her with a furious look in his eyes.
"You defile our ways,"
He spat.
"You have no place among us!"
Arthevan panicked and her voice trembled.
"No, I did nothing wrong!"
Tavin stepped out of the gathered crowd and spoke.
"I saw her marking a kill with Hircine's name! She marked the deer with the Daedra's symbol. I'm certain of it!"
The crowd became agitated, and many started staring at her parents, suspecting them of the same heresy. Another elder stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
"And what of your family? Who taught you this heresy? Who among them shares your corruption?"
Arthevan's breath hitched, but she squared her shoulders.
"No one. This is my path. Mine alone. They knew nothing of it."
The accusation turned to her parents, but her father stepped forward, voice calm but firm.
"She speaks true."
The elders exchanged dark glances.
"Then exile is her fate. Let none speak her name again."
Before she left, her parents met her in the darkness outside the clan's border. Sylwen clutched her tightly, whispering broken apologies, but it was Caelir who placed his hands on her shoulders, his voice steady and proud.
"You saved us, Arthevan. We will never forget that. But listen well—our paths are our own to walk. You chose yours, and it is only just beginning. Follow it without fear."
His eyes gleamed with something more—pride.
"We will miss you every day,"
Sylwen whispered, voice thick with emotion.
"But you are strong, my daughter. Stronger than any of them know."
Tears burned in her eyes, but she nodded. Without another word, she turned and walked into the wilds. As she passed the clan's outer limits, she took one last look at the place she had called home. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, letting the familiar scents of the forest etch themselves into her memory—damp earth, fresh leaves, the faint trace of woodsmoke. She held onto them, as if capturing a part of this place to keep with her forever. With a final exhale, she opened her eyes and stepped into the unknown.
Stripped of her place among her people, Arthevan was forced to wander. Alone for the first time in her life, she journeyed through Cyrodiil, surviving on her wits and skill with a bow. She found the Empire's structured cities suffocating cages of stone and law, where the wild hunt was seen as barbaric rather than sacred. Restless and searching for purpose, she eventually arrived in Bruma, where she first heard tales of Skyrim—a land of untamed wilderness, great beasts, and free-spirited warriors.
It was everything she longed for. Leaving Cyrodiil behind, she crossed the Pale Pass into Skyrim's frozen wilds with nothing but her bow, her dagger, her buckler shield, and the instincts that had kept her alive. She had lost her home.
Now, she would forge a new one.