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A Mountain Wanderer, Gallows Rock

Started by Elric Greywolf
Post #132718

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Aldmeri Dominion (Khajiit)
I ran through the trees, on my way from Whiterun to Windhelm, the beat of monstrous wings pursuing me from overhead, and the fearsome cry of a hunting dragon echoed off the distant peaks. I had left my fire-resistant ring, a gift from a pretty girl in the last town, at home, and so was unprepared to face a beast of such choleric temperament. Fortunately, I could see a tower not far ahead, and I quickly made my way inside. I had heard before I set out to be wary of a particular old Imperial barracks, but as I couldn't recall which one (the mead had been quite good), and as I was in pressing need of bulwarks, I slipped inside, noting the exceptional quality of the door's wood.

I quietly closed the door behind me, and the frustrated shrieks of the drake soon became mere memories. I could hear voices and see flickering shadows ahead in the corridor, and I eased my way down the dark passage, wary of what scalawags might make their home in this remote bastion. I peeked around a corner, and a gruesome visage bared its fangs at me. I recoiled with a terrified intake of breath and an impious oath, my heart instantly prepared to bid farewell to this fickle world.

Fortunately, neither the diabolical shape before me nor more human shapes further on in the corridor had heard my quiet exclamation, the latter because they were engaged in a bout of carousing, the former because it was mounted on the wall. I scrutinised the mounted head, which seemed to me to be a large wolf, but with eyes far too crafty for any wild canine. I then saw the glint of silver at the hips of the laughing men, and I put the clues together: I had stumbled into a camp of the Silver Hands, those obscure werewolf hunters about whom I had till now heard only whispers.

I stood and revealed myself to the pair. "Gentlemen," I said, "greetings and good will. Might I share your fire, and perhaps a little drink? I feel a kindred spirit with you, as I myself am a hunter of unnatural beasts." As I prepared to spin a tale of dragon-hunting that would make the eyes of even the most jaded warrior widen in awe, both men pulled their swords.

"We don't approve of trespassers, stranger," the smaller of the two - who happened to be a hand taller than myself - grunted. The larger merely growled in a most inhospitable manner, and I knew that Death had felt cheated at my most recent escape.

I smoothly drew my bow and placed a shaft, then sent it whispering through the air to pierce the throat of the big one. The other fellow blinked in surprise as crimson blood gouted across his face, and before he could move toward me, I feathered his eye. I am very dextrous with my bow, if I do say so myself.

After helping myself to their swords (I feel very fond of pure silver), I descended deeper into the damp stone halls. There seemed to be no one else around, although the amount of wolf's heads - on pikes, mounted, sitting on tables - impressed even me. I had been unaware of the seeming plague of werewolves that infested Skyrim's majestic mountains. I eventually came to a door with a large wooden bar across it. Knowing from years of experience that the best loot was always locked away, I lifted the bar and shouldered the heavy door open. As the shiny silver hinges, set on the outside, squealed, I heard a low, hungry growl echo through the passages before me.

Apparently the Silver Hand does not immediately kill all the werewolves it finds. I knew I was in trouble.
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