Moonsong
A tale from Solstheim. A former adventurer leads a double life and likes it that way. But what happens when she's called upon once more? Will she sacrifice the life she loves—and perhaps more—for duty and honor?
"HELP! Someone! My son is missing! Anyone, please!"
I tried not to stiffen as I made my way through the streets of Raven Rock, the mining colony in Solstheim. The guar-leather pack's straps bit into my shoulders as I continued to walk, pretending to be mute to the cries of the distressed mother. What are people doing, bringing young children to this thrice-forsaken island? I asked myself as I continued down the main street, stopping before the door of the Raven Rock Bar to listen behind me. My ears were better than many; I heard murmured words as some of the volunteer colony guards approached the wailing Breton woman. She calmed down, and I nodded to myself, Good. Someone'll help her find her son or whatever. I felt a tinge of regret as I pushed open the door to the bar; I wanted to help. It was so rare that I did anything like what I used to do in the old days when I used to be an adventurer, a sword for hire. But now, with things as they were...I kept to myself. I had to.
I offered a smile to the bartender, Alcedonia Amnis, a tough Imperial woman...but then again, on this island, everyone had to be tough. "Afternoon Alcedonia," I said, approaching her.
She nodded to me, "Greetings Taima. What can I do for you?"
"I need about five kwama eggs and a few pounds of guar meat, enough to last me through the rest of the week. Oh, and throw in a bottle of flin."
She nodded once more, reaching underneath the counter to pull up the foods I requested, asking idly as she did, "Expecting company?"
"Yeah," I nodded, lying. She didn't notice, or perhaps didn't care, and turned her back to count out the kwama eggs. I smiled as I leaned against the bar, reminded of why I always got my supplies from her; she asked no questions, and accepted any answer that I gave her as if it were the truth. Some were skeptical when I told them that I preferred to live alone, even on this island, with no one to bother me. Some gave me an odd look when I confessed to being afraid of werewolves, so I always returned home before nine at night, when they lost their human forms. Afraid...ha, that was a laugh.
How could I be afraid of what I was?
I remember how I contacted Sanies Lupinus: the disease of werewolves. It was a random encounter; could have happened to anyone. But it happened to me. I new to this island, and was out adventure-seeking, as usual, searching through burrows and burial tombs. I had just come out of a burrow, tired but triumphant, when the werewolf attacked me. It was so sudden that I was caught off guard for a moment, and it managed to bite me several times before I could plunge my sword into its chest.
I had used all my potions and scrolls earlier that day, in the burrow. I had no way to cure myself or get to a Temple or an Imperial Cult for healing. Later, I would remember that I had learned the spells Divine Intervention and Almsivi Intervention, but later would be too late. I suppose the pain of the bites made me forget that I knew them, but what is done is done. My only hope was no hope at all; run all the way back to Fort Frostmoth. Impossible. But I tried. And I failed.
I was still out in the wilds when the first change overtook me. For that, I am glad; I harmed no one, that first night. I ran far and fast, trying to escape, and I suffered greatly in the morning, but I harmed no one. Later I would learn: kill quickly, without undue pain to the victim, but kill, and the bloodlust that all werewolves know will be gone for the night, and my strength will return. So I scouted the island and learned the locations of all the camps of smugglers, crazed berserkers, and all the others that attack on sight. At night, when I take on my wolf form, I kill them, the ones whom Imperial justice would have to kill anyways. Their disappearance is never noted or remarked on. And then I run wild and free and strong, a black wolf of the north.
So I returned to the mining colony, and bought a house several miles away, where no one would see me change under the stars' light. Far enough away that if they heard me sing the song of the moon, they would think me to be just another wolf. Too far away to hurt anyone by accident, if someone were to stumble across me before I had sated the need to kill. And so I planned to live out my days, in solitude.
Behind me, the door leading out opened, and I turned my head just in time to see a troop of guards march in, the Breton woman who had been wailing in their midst. A big Nord I vaguely recognized as Roc, head of the Guard, leapt up onto a table and called out over the noise of the bar, "Everyone!" he considered a moment, then amended, "Everyone who's not drunk." A laugh rolled out from the patrons even as they began to gather around Roc. "Mistress Veta's son Hethan is missing. We fear he may be out in the wilds. We need everyone who can wield a sword or bow or magicka with any degree of skill to help with the search. We need all the help we can get; it's already six at night. We have three hours until the werewolves—not to mention all the other nasty things on this island—really become active."
Roc wasted no time or words in telling what happened and what he needed. Not surprisingly, most of the people who were able volunteered to help with the search, and I turned back to Alcedonia, confident that the boy would be found before anything happened to him, though I could not dismiss the uneasy feeling I had in my gut. Instinct screamed at me, telling me what, I didn't know, but something important. I shoved it to the side, trying to call it just another werewolf-thing, like the strength and the speed and the keener senses that I had gained. I thanked Alcedonia, paying out the amount of drakes required without even trying to barter; I just wasn't in the mood.
"Taima, didn't you used to be quite a hand with a sword...?" I jerked at the sound of Roc's voice, staring at him without understanding. When there was no answer to his question, he urged me in a soft tone, so that no one could overhear, "Taima, we need all the experienced swordsmen and -women and trackers we can get. If only half of what I heard about you is true, then you used to be quite an adventurer...one of the best. They say no one could match you with a sword..."
I felt heat rise to my face, and I turned my head down. How could I help them? Either I'd have to slip away for the night, or I'd have to reveal what I was to them...and face eternal persecution for it. I mumbled something, I'm not sure what, along the lines of a refusal.
"Taima...please? We need you."
I lifted my gaze and forced myself to speak clearly; if I didn't give a good reason, he would guilt me into helping, and then I'd be in trouble, "No, you don't. When all's said and done I'm too old now; these young ones are better with a sword than I am. Besides, you know where I live. I've got to get home before dark. I'll look for him along the trail that I take, but I can't do anything more. I'm sorry, Roc, but I can't."
His eyes were sympathetic and pitying as he nodded, and turned back to start organizing the volunteers into search parties. Something within me rankled at the idea of being pitied, and I almost marched up to Roc to tell him that I'd changed my mind...but then I remembered my senses, and turned on my back, exiting the bar. It's ironic, I mused as I continued out of Raven Rock, taking a small guar-trail deep into the wilds, That I have become so cold, so rational during the day, so that at night, I can live by emotions. Ha. A bitter joke.
A little over two hours later, I was finishing up my nightly preparations in my home in the wilds, making sure all the doors and windows of my little cabin were locked, that the food was stored in my small cellar below, a chest of weapons and armor placed atop the trapdoor to deter any creature that might get in through creative means. I had discovered the hard way not to take any chances with this. Finally, after one last sweep through the rooms to make sure I had remembered everything, I left the cabin, locking the door behind me, and stepped out into the night.
My cabin was nestled between several hills too rocky to be climbed at night except by the best experts, overshadowed by mountains. A single guar-trail wound its way between two of the hills, the only entrance for most on two legs. Huge pines covered the slopes, forcing the trail to take several turns to avoid trees. I had encouraged the growth of local wild plants in this sheltered grove of mine, most bushes whose rustling would warn me of anyone or anything's approach, with a few trailing vines and fruit-bearing plants thrown in for good measure.
I moved through those same bushes and plants without disturbing a twig, long practice guiding my steps as I walked behind the cabin, to where a small stream flowed into a deep pool from the tallest mountain behind my cabin. Long ago—at least, what felt like long ago to me—I had cleared bushes from the edge of the pool and the exit stream that twisted and curved past my cabin out of the hills, lining the banks with smooth shale. Now the pool and stream were the starting point for all my night's rovings; no one would see the footprints of a Nord turn into the tracks of a wolf. Furthermore, if anyone were to try to follow me back to my cabin, all I had to do was plunge into the stream to erase all tracks and scent.
I paused on the bank of the pool, just before the smooth rocks. My hands were steady as I began to strip off my clothes, removing everything but my close-fitting undergarments; I had learned that all but skintight clothing was shredded and ruined in the transformation from Nord to wolf and back. Besides, I didn't need it in my wolf form, so why bother? I folded my worn blue shirt neatly as I set it on a flat boulder I had brought here just for this purpose, my sensitive fingertips brushing over the smooth silk. The pants were next, the fine cloth the last remnants of the life I once led: that of an adventurer wealthy with plunder. Now, I hoarded my wealth jealously, knowing that when it was gone, I would have to sell my keepsakes; my armor, my sword, my bow, and the things I had...found over my two years as a werewolf. The smugglers who had owned the various possessions were dead, after all; why shouldn't I take them for my own?
I took a deep breath as I stepped onto the rock lining the banks of the pool, my pale skin covered with gooseflesh. I praised Hircine—the Daedra Lord of the hunt and of werewolves—that it was still warm; in winter, this was brutal....at least, until the ritual was complete. It had stopped hurting after the thirtieth time. I had stopped caring about the kill I made each night after the sixtieth. I lifted my arms and threw back my head in the beginning of my personal ritual, my black hair flowing down my back, free of its tie. Closing my eyes, I took one last deep breath, and then welcomed the change. One more thing I'd learned is that fighting the shift from Nord to wolf made it worse...and hurt.
But I welcomed the feeling of thick, luxurious black fur rippling down my skin, warming me faster and better than clothing ever could. I felt minor discomfort as my face contorted into a muzzle, as my spine stretched into a flowing, feathery tail, as my fingers and toes arched into claws. I don't know if the pain that once raked my body vanished as my bones became accustomed to this, or if I simply became used to it. In either case, I felt almost nothing as I changed forms, discarding one for the other. In those minutes, I was vulnerable; neither fully wolf to attack with claws and teeth, nor human enough to still use weapons. That was the main reason I sought privacy for this ritual; that and the fact that if anyone ever saw me change, I could kiss my 'normal' life goodbye.
The night opened up to me as my eyes changed from gray-blue to bright gold, and the transformation was complete. The shadows that I had seen with my 'normal' eyes were gone; I saw everything as if it was day. I stretched, flexing my claws, and took a moment to admire myself in the still waters of the pool. I was unusual in my black fur; most werewolves were russets, with the occasional snow-white or silver gray. But beyond that, I was the same as any of us who roved the island; a wolf contorted onto her hind legs, bigger than many of my kind, but smaller than some of the males. I grinned, exposing my sharpened fangs, and stepped into the chilly water of the stream, wading downstream, away from my cabin. Already the urge to kill tugged at me, and I listened to it as I had done since I had learned that killing made me strong...or at least, kept me from being weak. There was a small group of smugglers a few miles away, where this stream joined with a larger river. I had been weeding them out for a week now, leaving enough to make them think that they were still safe, enough to recruit more smugglers who would become prey for me. When I thought about it, it was amazing how fast I had changed from the adventurer's standpoint (kill all the smugglers in one bloody day) to the werewolf's (take the weak, the unwary, then move on to a different group, letting the first repopulate, etc.) To this day, I wasn't sure which view was right.
One bloody hour later, I lapped the icy stream water, using my claws to wash away the blood splatters on my fur. The urge to kill appeased for the night, I straightened, tilting my head back to sort through the scents of the night, sighing in satisfaction. The entire night was before me, and I could already hear the many of the other werewolves of Solstheim singing to the moon, the loose pack gathering for a hunt; they would track and chase some creature for the love and joy of it, not to feed. I wanted to throw back my muzzle and respond to their calls, telling them that I would join their gathering and their hunt...but something nagged at me, something terribly important...oh, yes. The Breton child. I had told Roc that I would look for him along my guar-trail, but as a Nord I had seen nothing. My senses were keener in this form; what the Nord missed, the wolf might see. I regretfully turned on my tail, leaving the calls of my species-kin unanswered, making my way back upstream to run along the guar-trail that led from my cabin to the outskirts of the town. I would do my duty to the colony, and help them find this child, utilizing all of my hunting abilities. And then I would run with my species-kin.
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