Chapter 3 – Gently

The Breton breathes deeply, feeling the frost drying the inside of her nostrils. She resists the urge to shiver, and her exposed fingers are nearly numb. She momentarily wishes she were back at camp, warm in her bedroll with a small fire crackling somewhere nearby. She shakes the ridiculous thoughts as soon as they come to her and turns her attention back to the task at hand. Her pupils dilate to take in all the light available in the half lit dawn. As she creeps ever forward, the frosted grass crackles softly under her feet and she makes a conscious effort to step lighter.

She has been following a small herd of elk for just shy of half a day. The herd hasn't moved far from where she originally picked up the trail, but it is slow going as she maintains a downwind position from her prey. They aren't enough for her to get a perfect shot and she is aware of her rapidly depleting darkness. She has always preferred to hunt in the dark. Darkness covers so much; it is a cloak in which she can move freely and invisibly. Once the sun has risen completely, she will have to pull back and put more distance between herself and her mark. With little to no cover, she will be spotted almost instantly. The last thing she wants is to scare the massive beasts away. Smaller creatures and fish would be a good backup plan, but she has so missed the taste of real game and patience is something in which she has rarely found herself lacking.

Foolishness, however, has never been a word she would use to describe herself. She knows when she is dealt a losing hand. Just as she is about to call off her risky hunt, the animals seem to stop. They gather at a stream, bending their proud necks to taste the cold, clear water. They are within range at long last. The warrior moves with practiced ease as she picks her target. The beast is mid-sized, not a prized kill by any means, but it is all she needs. His antlers are rather striking and she guesses they will catch a fair price once they arrive in whiterun. Such trophies are prime decorations in taverns and even in the Jarl's own hall. She feels sure that she knows just who to sell them to.

With that thought in mind, she lifts her bow and draws back the string with practiced ease. It betrays a sense of ease that could not be further from the truth. The massive war bow would typically have been considered a weapon that only the strongest of men could draw, but her taught shoulder muscles draw together and pull the orcish weapon into a deadly curve. Her arrow is nocked without any conscious thought and her fingers draw the feathered shaft to rest against the corner of her chapped lips. She takes one breath, then a second and sets her target. She imagines the shot, the arrow flying its path, the thunk as it finds its mark and the thud of the animal that will follow when it's lifeless body hits the earth. She can see it all so clearly.

She takes a final, deep breath and lets the arrow fly. Immediately after the string leaves her fingertips, in the time it takes for the arrow to leave the bow, all of the woman's concentration shatters when a scream of terror cuts through the silence of the still morning. The arrow flies wide, burying itself deeply into the earth below the startled animal. The herd clambers in alarm and moves as a mass away from the arrow, away from the sound that had frightened them so, and away from the huntress who is now without a kill.

But the hunt is long forgotten, and the Breton is crouching low to the ground with a second arrow set to the string of her bow. She tries to get a sense of where the sound had come from, but everything has become still and silent once again. A deep feeling of unease settles itself within her chest, the discomfort making the hair on her arms stand on end. The beast within her is awake, heightening her senses. She scans the horizon for any sense of movement, but she sees nothing.

She moves silently to the nearby ridge and peers down to the path below. In the early morning light, she sees the cause of the disturbance. There, slightly off the warn path is a toppled wagon. She can just make out the figures surrounding the downed cart as they edge in and out of cover moving closer. The horses lie on top of one another in a struggling heap, their legs having been cut out from under them by a sharp wire pulled across the path. The animals' make pained sounds, kicking feebly at the wooden contraption that has them pinned to the earth. The Thane's jaw clenches and her grip on her bow tightens. She is about to fire an arrow at one of the nearest highwaymen when something catches her eye. It is a shock of unmistakable orange hair, the person from whom the scream had originated. The warrior feels her heart in her throat, hammering rapidly. Ysolda, the kindly merchant from Whiterun, the very person she had intended to sell the elk antlers to, lies unconscious where she was thrown from the wagon. Or at least the Breton hopes she is simply unconscious.

She surveys the highwaymen's numbers and curses. She can't guarantee she will be able to take them all out safely without risking the merchant's life. The woman is defenseless. If she were to be struck by a stray arrow, or used as a hostage, even the Thane of Whiterun can't say for certain that the poor nord would survive. She frowns when she comes up with her plan, not liking how long Ysolda will have to go without attention, but realizing it is her best course of action. Steeling herself for what is to come, she begins to make her way carefully down to the road. She decides she'll have to take them at night, in their sleep. A silent attack is the only option that protects Ysolda from being caught in the midst of battle. She also knows she won't be able to focus if she is concerned about someone else's wellbeing while she fights.

She further considers her strategy as she walks. If she takes them out from the outside, there will be significantly more risk of one of them raising the alarm in a group this large. The best position for such an attack would be from the inside, bypassing the outward scouts entirely. If she is able to dispose of them one at a time in their beds, a couple of guards will be no problem to deal with once she's secured the merchant woman.

Just as the plan begins to take form in her mind, one of the highwaymen moves to the crumpled Nord woman, gripping one of her wrists and dragging her away from the wreckage. He doesn't bother to check her body over for loot, but instead casts her roughly aside against a small outcropping of rocks. The way the redhead's body glances off the hard surface of the boulders sends the Breton reeling and hot anger courser through her veins. All thoughtful strategy flees her mind as she abandons her cover and races down the careening slope, barely keeping her footing despite her considerable agility.

She hears the sounds of alarm rising up from the group as she hefts her battle axe off of her back and into her iron grip. She cuts through the first man who gets in her way, cleaving his arm from his body before continuing the momentum in an arcing chop, finishing his swiftly. But then they are upon her. She lays waste to the next two who reach her, feeling the crunch of the firsts skull under the flat heft of her axe and bearing her impossibly strong fist to the throat of the second.

The first arrow takes her in the calf, only piercing lightly through her soft armor. Then the blow comes to the back of her skull. She falls beneath a barrage of blows and bodies, the crushing weight of at least four men bringing her to the ground. They struggle to wrench her axe from her grip and a dagger slides cleanly through the armor of her side. Her breath leaves her in a breathy cry and her vision swims dangerously. Through the tangle of bodies and feet, she catches sight of Ysolda. Her head is cocked to the side, bone piercing through the skin of her leg where it has snapped. For all the things the Thane has seen, she can't imagine anything worse.

Fury and rage flood the warrior and she can hear the beast snarling from its place deep within her mind. She can make out its words- Kill them, all of them. Rip them to pieces for their insolence. For once she can't help but agree with the inky blackness swirling in her consciousness. A scowl cuts across her face and she winces as her joints are pushed to their limits, bearing her teeth as the tension in her builds.

Her vision tinges red around the edges, and she already knows what is coming. She's been trying to keep the beast at bay since that night a mere week ago, but as the possibilities of what these men intend to do to her flash before her eyes, she can fight it no longer.

All that matters to her in that moment is the pain of her enemies, of those who would threaten her friend, what belongs to her. Hers.

She hears their screams for only a moment before she is lost completely. Her shadow begins to change. Where a woman once stood, a monstrous beast now looms. Its horrifying form plays on the rustling grass for mere seconds before it moves. Framling remembers nothing more.

When the dust settles and the beast melts away, the Breton is exhausted. She can taste the iron of blood in her mouth. She stumbles through the mess of limbs and torsos scattered around her, trying not to look too closely. It is different that the clean lines of human battle. Her enemies are in tatters, barely recognizable as human at all. It is as though their bodies were mere parchment, shredded by her hands. The stench of death is overwhelming, but her only thought is of the small form of her merchant friend.

She does her best to wipe the gore from her hand before resting it gently on Ysolda's neck. Her pulse is faint, but certainly there. The golden magic flows from her fingertips without a thought. Despite her exhaustion, she manages a simple healing spell and feels the Nord's heartbeat strengthen. At a slow and agonizing pace, she pulls the woman into her arms and stands. She staggers slightly under the weight, but starts off away from the wreckage back the way she came, collecting her axe from where it remained clenched in the cold fingers of the man who had taken it from her, his hand no longer a part of the rest of his mangled body.

Once she feels they are a sufficient ways away from the carnage, Framling goes about the task of setting up camp. Though her body screams for rest, she carries on, stoking the flames of a small cooking fire and tending more closely to the injured Nord. Images of the battle flit through her mind as she scrubs the blood from her body in the nearby stream. She feels no small amount of disgust at her actions, her loss of composure and her resulting transformation. As the cold mask she has created for herself slips back into place and the remaining dregs of unease leave her, she promises to herself not to rely on the beast again.

It is dark by the time the merchant stirs and the warrior is startled out of her thoughts when the gentle voice breaks the stillness of the night. "It's quiet." Ysolda's eyes are glinting in the moonlight, not looking at anything in particular. Her face is still pale and her breathing is slightly off.

Framling casts a glance towards her old friend from her place at the foot of the bedroll. Her voice takes a steel edge. "You were careless." A frown creases her brow, and she narrows her dark eyes at the nord. "How could you do something so reckless? You know how dangerous the roads are!" She could feel her temper flaring, her voice rising ever so slightly in volume. "And without an escort! You could have been killed, off to Sovengarde on some roadside! Why would you not come to me with this?" She stills her shaking hand as soon as she notices it, bringing it to a hard fist in her lap, the muscles in her jaw working tersely beneath her smooth skin. She makes a conscious effort to breathe more deeply. The beast within her roils, basking in her internal fury, her fear.

"Fram…" Ysolda begins gently, attempting to sit up. She stops and winces, her injured ribs giving her pause. Without missing a beat, the Breton is by her side, easing her back down with a stern look. The nord puffs her orange hair out of her face, rolling her cerulean eyes indignantly as she settles back onto the sleeping roll. She shivers and the Thane shrugs off her travel cloak, settling it over the small woman.

She leans against the downed tree and turns her face away from her injured friend and sighs deeply. "Don't you 'Fram' me." She is only slightly startled when a cold hand snakes its way into hers. Begrudgingly, she accepts the gesture, tracing soft patterns on the back of the offered appendage with her calloused thumb. "Please be more careful." The request is barely audible, but a small smile creeps onto Ysolda's face none the less.

She yawns, her grip on the Breton easing. "Alright Fram, you win." Without another word she is off in the land of dreams. The warrior tucks the woman's arm back into her bedroll before brushing her hand lightly across her sleeping face. She rests her palm on the pale cheek for only a moment and then slips away to patrol the perimeter of the camp. She swears to herself that nothing will disturb the peace tonight.