A Dance with Daedra

The grey dawn sky slowly brightens to the sounds of the forge. Eorlund Grey-Mane, the best smith in Skyrim and head of the ancient Grey-Mane clan, plies his trade with the skills and strength earned over decades of beating steel into its proper shape. The red hot metal bends to his will with each swing of the heavy hammer in his hand. Sweat runs in rivers down his spine despite the bone numbing cold of the early morning as the flames of the Skyforge ignited by the funeral pyre of Kodlak Whitemane dance in their pit. Slowly, the lumps of metal begins to take shape.

Pauldrons, vambraces, greaves all shaped by his expert hands before working on the cuirass. The traditional wolf devices are wrought into the steel and inlaid with gold to stand out. The steel itself is a cold grey like the skies of winter herself and molded to the exact measurements of the one to wear it. Hours and hours he spends at the anvil, the hammer never losing its strength or skill as flesh shapes metal like clay. The sun rises and begins to fall as the smith works his wonders without regard to time. When it is finally finished he can step back and regard his work with a fond smile. The wolf head howling from the center of the sculpted breastplate is inlaid with fine silver to give the wolf's mane a fine detail rarely found.

Nordic patterns swirl across the pauldrons like mating serpents and trail down the arms. The shirt of mail meant to be worn beneath shines like silver in the evening sunlight as his calloused hands inspect every link for the slightest imperfection. Finally satisfied with his work he loads it up into a cart and begins hauling it towards the sounds of warriors sinking into their cups and singing songs of glory long past.

The heat of the roaring fire in the pit banishes the cold of Skyrim's night and fills the air with the scent of roasting meat. Whole slabs are rotating on fire blackened spits and are carved directly from the bone onto plates. Mugs of ale and mead are lifted high as the hero of the hour once again drives Athis' hand into the table.

"That's the third time brother!" Bjorn teases as he readies his hand once more. His volcanic eyed shield-brother grins widely in return and clasps his hand in turn resting his elbow on the table.

"And now you're growing tired brother! I can see the shaking in your muscles," the witty Dunmer retorts with a wicked smile.

"You lie, and I will show you!" At the word go the two warriors strain against one another, their bulging biceps straining against each other...but the Dunmer has to accept the inevitable: the Nord simply has too much muscle. So he has to improvise.

"Why hello Ria!" Bjorn flinches and Athis capitalizes nearly slamming the Nord's meaty hand into the rough table only for it to be stopped short at the last moment. The Dunmer would have chuckled at the smoldering indignant rage in the larger man's eyes...if his own hand wasn't suddenly being wrenched the other way.

"Now, now brother...don't shatter the poor lads hand," Vilkas cautions a moment before the Dunmer's hand slams into the old oaken table with a hearty crack that is enough to make many wince in sympathy.

"Dibella's teats!" the Dunmer curses and shakes out his now bruised hand to the roaring laughter of his friends. Bjorn chuckles lightly and accepts a mug of mead from one of the dozens offered.

"That is why you should never get a Nord angry brother!" someone shouts and pounds the still cursing Elf on the back. Plates of venison are set at the tables as mugs are refilled and drained again and again. Torvar, already ruby faced with drink and holding a mug in either hand belts out a bawdy drinking song that every voice soon joins in making the rafters ring. The door bangs open admitting a gust of brisk air that sobers several moods. Eorlund's broad smile sends a burst of anticipation through everyone else as the aging smith wheels his heavy cart through the broad doors.

"Bjorn! Step forward lad, I've got something for you," the master smith calls summoning the youth from among the press of bodies. The smith smiles kindly at him as the man of the hour steps forward with a curious look on his face.

"I've worked on this for a while lad, I know that you've been making do with that armor for a while now and that you would never complain. But, you're a Companion now and as such you deserve the best of my craft. Your honor, your courage, and your strength to drive forward has made those who have met you see that you are more than your beginnings. Your soul is as true as any Nord can claim, this gift will protect that," the smith says creating a blossom of pride in the younger man's chest. One calloused hand takes hold of the corner of the ragged blanket covering the cart and flings it free. Gasps spread through the crowd as the masterpiece is revealed for all to see. The young man takes it all in from the glimmering gold iconography to the milky sheen of the steel and can't fight the grin splitting his features.

"Thank you Eurolund. I can't ever repay you for this," he chokes out and shakes the master smith's hand in gratitude, overwhelmed by the gift. There isn't a doubt in his mind that the armor is worth more than every coin he has touched in his life and to be given it as a gift...it defies belief.

"No need for that now lad, just keep on your path."

"Eyes on the prey not the horizon," Aela intones with a twinkle in her eye as she glances at Ria who keeps her eyes glued on her crush.

Three months later…

Cries of pain and fear rend the air as steel cleaves through hide, cloth, and flesh alike. Ria almost shouts for joy as she fights side-by-side with Bjorn, now forever a part of her pack after partaking in the beastblood. Their blades rise and fall, plunge deep into flesh, carve through bone and steel with ease, and let blood flow freely around their feet. The bandits fight harder as they recognize the group of mercenaries crowding the door following the two Companions. Men and women pour from within the fort's many rooms to meet in a swirling mass of iron, steel, flesh, and rage.

"To the right!" Bjorn snarls and takes off a bandit's head with a single contemptuous swipe of his blade. He doesn't need to look to know that Ria heard him and is already shifting to follow. The bigger Nord bulldozes another bandit with a blow from his shield and a hack from shoulder to navel and then ploughs through another group breaking the circle. Mercenaries storm through the door behind the two companions weapons already bloody from clearing the walls before hand. The weight of numbers shatters the thin circle that had formed around the door and sends the bandits staggering. Arrows zip through the air as bowmen on both sides attempt pot-shots through the swirling melee. Bjorn leads Ria up a set of stone steps away from the bulk of fighting cutting through a pair of bandits without pausing.

"Leave some for me!" she calls out a moment before a half-dozen heavily armed men burst through a pair of double doors.

"That enough?" Bjorn quips with a smirk bringing his broad shield between his body and the charging bandits.

"It's a start," Ria chuckles following suit. With a roar of primal fury the two companions charge forward blades screaming for blood.

A shadow creeps through the fortress as mercenaries and bandits butcher each other in fevered melees. A bow is held in easy, confident fingers but no arrow is ready on the string as the figure simply leaps from beam to beam over the fighting. Sharp eyes lock onto the two Companions carving their way through the bandits with the kind of teamwork that that group is known for. Shield-siblings will always watch each others backs. The shadow jerks slightly when a severed head smacks into a support beside his head, the cranium having been flung away from the body by the sheer force behind the large Nord's strike. The shadow scoffs and wonders why his Mistress would have sent him all the way out here to keep an eye on two barbarians.

He waits until the two slip through the now open door before dropping the ground level.

"You've made a–" the bandit's declaration is cut off by the arrival of a jet black arrow to the throat. The shadow rises from his crouch ignoring the cooling corpse behind him in favor of stealthily following the two Companions deeper into the fort.

"Mistress there had better be a pot of gold at the top of these stairs," the shadow thinks bitterly. Said entity chuckles warmly as she watches her servant follow the trail of corpses towards his destiny, nearly one with the shadows.

"I've got something better for you...my Nightingale."

Bjorn snarls savagely as he rips his blade from a large Orc's chest before twisting and slamming the edge of his shield into a charging Imperial's chest. The lithe swordsman flops ungracefully onto his back from the force of the blow and only has time to scream in denial before Skyforge steel pierces his heart. Ria slips away from an overhead hammerblow to take a waraxe across her own shield that was meant for Bjorn's back.

"You're getting sloppy!" she admonishes plunging her blade into the axe wielder's guts. Bjorn grins and steps around Ria to take the hammer across the iron boss of his shield at an angle so that the deadly mass of iron slips from the surface without transferring its full force to his arm. His sword lashes out cutting across the top of both his opponent's knees in a single swipe bringing him to his knees and into easy reach of his blade. The return stroke opens the man's throat and Bjorn steps over him, leaving him to bleed out. The Nord's once pristine armor is smeared with blood and gore after two hours of fighting through what anyone could consider a large band of bandits. Rooting them out of the myriad rooms and chambers that the fortress is split into takes time especially when one has to batter down solid oak doors to get at the more cowardly ones at times.

"Come on we're almost at the top!" Bjorn shouts at the few mercenaries that are still with them, the rest having split off to clear other parts of the fort. Six warriors and a shadow burst through the final set of wooden doors and come upon the seen which all had been secretly fearing since the assault began. Blood soaked stones are piled waist high in seven piles against the back walls, the remains of what once might have been people still shackled to their fronts, their skulls flayed and gore smeared. Runes written in crimson life fluid decorate the walls somehow not running like they should be. Totems of animal heads hang from bone hooks and rough twine cords from the rafters still drip blood into the carved channels running across the floor.

"Disgusting witches," Ria hisses as she stands by Bjorn. The big Nord merely nods silently keeping his eyes pinned to the trio of hunched figures in the center of the room. The mercenaries fan out behind the two Companions weapons held in a white knuckled grip. Fighting mages of any power is always a risk, and fighting three as obviously powerful as these ones is a deadly proposition. Bjorn glances over his shoulder, eyes gleaming behind his helmet, and smirks oozing confidence. His inner wolf howls in anticipation as he readies his blade. Before he can take a step the witch in the center looks up...and smiles.

"For Whiterun!" Bjorn bellows and charges shield presented before him the others following close behind. The three witches raise their hands with serene smiles on their faces, an eerie blue light coming from their eyes. Their leader speaks a single word that is drowned out by a roar of raw power coming from their hands slamming into the warriors bearing down on them...and casting them into a world of madness.

"It has begun Sister."

"Yes Brother...it has. They should be right at home in that region." The skull faced man regards his sister with a critical eye, not liking that smile at all.

"Are you sure that the sacrifice of so many pawns is worth the venture Sister? The Hunt would surely benefit from some new ground but...there are thieves aplenty where they are going already."

"Oh dear Brother, this is nothing to me. Our plans will either secure us a new world or lose the same forever and we are truly sacrificing very little. Your Hunting Grounds will be full of new hunters and prey while I can expand my own domain. This alliance will give us a needed step above the rest of our siblings for millenia to come," Nocturnal sighs blissfully imagining all the power that would flood her ethereal veins when all those new worshippers begin sending her sacrifices. Hircine looks once more into the small portal as his two Wolves are dumped into the near frozen wasteland of their new home along with his new companions.

"It is not the cost to my faithful that worries me, this world has Gods of its own. These Old Gods...they are like the Spriggans in a way living in their trees," Hircine muses leaning on his spear.

"They might make worthy allies at least until our foothold is more secure in a few decades. These Seven…"

"They are nothing but mere aspects of what men wish the world to be. They are not a concern to me," Hircine declares already feeling the probes from the divine inhabitants of the world feeling his Wolves. A tingle at the edge of his senses alerts him to the present of the Old God's own Wolves, the rulers of these lands. There is very little of the so called Wolf's Blood in them...but then they are not his children.

"The Lords of these lands...they could be a good start. Let us speak with these Old Gods Sister mine, their world is changing and we will dictate its path. Let the Long Hunt begin."