Status: Ongoing...


The Honor of Beasts and Men

Blood flowed across the beast’s tongue and down her throat. A savage growl rattled her body, and with mighty jaws she tore into the young mammoth’s carcass with lusting ferocity. Entrails filled her maw, the juices released when she clenched, and with the toss of her head she swallowed. With front paws resembling hands she grabbed into the carcass and released a gut wrenching yowl into the sky.

Dark shadows moved a short distance away. The parental group of mammoths watched helplessly as the young one was feasted upon by the enraged lycan. The beast ignored them and delighted in the banquet. She couldn’t remember the last time she hunted and tasted the tangy warmth of a fresh kill. The thick black fur on her shoulders stood on end as she shivered. She had forgotten the delights of this life.

Burying her nose back into the remains, the massive werewolf savored every mouthful with satisfied grunts. After a while the mammoths moved off. They were too far away from the giant camps to alert any possible attempt at retribution. The mammoths hadn’t been the only ones watching the scene. The great lycan was very aware of the others that watched her. They shared the beast blood, the musky scent so intoxicating that it somewhat drowned out that of the mammoth in her jaws. Her instincts told her to chase them, perhaps capture and shred one of them for sport—but her better mind sang a different, louder tune. What would she gain from it? Other lycan weren’t a danger to her; she just didn’t like having them around. Younger changelings tended to be destructive, and too bold to stay alive.

These other beasts kept their distance—and their human forms—however, and eventually the feasting animal became very suspicious, even territorial. What were they waiting for, an invitation to her supper? She snorted at the very idea and with this in mind turned away from her feast to brood towards the intruders.

Blood stained her prints in the snow, and drops fell from her jaws. Steam rose to the air from between blooded fangs, and with an irritated growl she stalked forward on all fours. She watched as they stood and fanned out in front of her, positioning themselves much more efficiently than what she had expected. She growled again and slowed to a stop. They nearly surrounded her now, weapons drawn and held warily in front of their persons. These weren’t mere brutish lycanthropes—they were trained warriors. It didn’t take the beast long to realize who they were.

“Companions…” the word rippled from her throat in wake of a growl. A mere mortal would never understand her, but they—her brethren and kin—could hear her clearly. There were five of them, four men and one woman of varying ages and skills. One of them stood out however, and slowly she turned her head to stare at the eldest of the five. She studied him with wide eyes that blazed yellow and red, and while adjusting her posture she inhaled his scent. “The Harbinger,” she rumbled, pushing herself up onto two feet to tower over them. “The Harbinger should know better than to attempt to sneak…and spy. It could get an unwise wolf killed.”

The other companions stirred uncomfortably around her, but their Harbinger stood tall and firm, unconcerned for her warning. Instead of the Harbinger one of the others spoke up, his voice sharp. “Who are you to speak to Kodlak in that manner?” the demand came from one of the youngest. A man with broad, strong shoulders and a mane of dark hair, with pale skin and black war paint slathered over his eyes. “You should show the respect he deserves, and keep your threats unspoken.”

“Vilkas hold your tongue.” The Harbinger ordered swiftly.

“His words carry no weight—my conversation is with you, Harbinger.” The beast carried her gaze back to the aging man in front of her. His whiskers were thick and grey and his eyes held the weight and wisdom of past battles. “Why do you come out here and disturb me?” the heavy smell of the bloody kill behind her began to trickle back to her senses. The strength of her instincts was once again outweighing her logical mind. The pull was strong, she yearned to continue feeding. “I am unfit for conversation. You are foolish.”

“You are Roskva the Wall, you have experience.”

“Not of recent years.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Armor scraped and shifted as the Companion’s exchanged glances with each other. Roskva took this time to forcefully mediate, crushing out the scents and instinct that came with them. History had conveniently left out her name from the stories, but the Harbinger’s of the Companions continued to whisper it throughout the years. She reflected on the name, and the person who had carried it. She lost consciousness and when she became aware of her surroundings again, the wind was cold and she was hunched over in the snow, naked on her hands and knees.

Her mind unclouded and she shrugged away the bitter cold and pushed herself to her feet. Weapons were sheathed all around, starting with the Harbinger. Roskva inhaled deeply and looked down at her blood-coated torso and arms, a wry smile cracking her lips. “I want to know why you’ve sought me out Harbinger.” She said. Roskva licked her arm, savoring the mammoth’s taste. “My business is not yours.”

“It is unlikely I would have tracked you down otherwise.” Kodlak assured her. He walked towards her while removing his fur cloak. “I know the prophecy,” he said lowly as he put the cloak over her shoulders. “You are looking for the Dragonborn. I am looking for the Dragonborn.”

Roskva gave Kodlak an approving grin. “You know the whole prophecy, then?” He wouldn’t have put so much effort into finding her if he didn’t. The Dragonborn had a destiny written within the Companions as well, and Kodlak was smart to attempt to secure it. “Maybe we can help each other out after all.”


Whiterun could be seen in the distance, Dragonsreach towered over the protective walls like the spectacle of greatness it was. Roar fell in favor of the Jarl, and he respected the man greatly, but he wished the old Nord could see through to the Stormcloak agenda. Jarl Balgruuf claimed to be neutral, but Roar knew his tendencies for loyalty were swayed in favor of the Empire. Even the bards sang of Imperial victory.

He remembered the statue of Talos that stood tall in the Wind District; and the Priest, Heimskr, who preached there every day. He was wise and brave, a man to be respected in Roar’s eyes. Listening to the old man’s sermon was the only thing he missed about Whiterun.

“The Dovahkiin is Thane of Whiterun Hold.”

Roar flinched and turned around to the sound of the voice. She was still following him all this time? He watched as the Dunmer, Windelin, nearly skip down the road towards him, clearly thrilled that he had stopped to acknowledge her presence. He had awakened early enough to leave without her noticing, but had become aware of her distant presence within two hours. He hadn’t expected her to catch up with him.

The disgruntled Nord shot the unbalanced Dunmer a cold look as she stopped in front of him. She was so much smaller than he was, and the fact seemed lost on her. Now with the light of day to help him he could finally see the vacant darkness of her eyes. Even his reflection got lost in the endless depths.

The words he had planned for her were forgotten, and Roar kept silent and still as he searched for his face in the two black pools. The longer he searched the more lost he felt. He could no longer feel the chill in the air or the weight of his armor, nor could he see the light of the sun peeking through the clouds. There was nothing but shadows, a darkness wrapped in a haunting madness that seemed to push and prod at his very soul. It was trying to seep in.

With a choked yell Roar found his hands to Windelin’s shoulders and gave her a rough shove backwards. The elf gave a surprised yelp as she fell onto the frozen gravel, the lute and staff on her back scuffing and crunching with the impact. “What in Oblivion were you trying to do to me?!” he yelled at her, spit flying from his mouth. He trembled, the contents of his stomach sloshed and churned, threatening to burst to his throat. It was dark magic, and it had touched him.

Windelin moaned as she sat up. She ignored Roar’s demand, her attention immediately going to the items on her back. The staff was fine, but the lute had taken the full brunt of the impact, its body partially shattered in splinters over the ground. She looked at the instrument in terror, releasing a choked whine before she turned her gaze back to Roar. Her crimson eyes burned with tears. “You broke Windelin’s lute!” she shrieked. “It was a gift from Windelin’s Master! And you broke it!”

Roar braced himself for the wrath of a mage, expecting fire to erupt from the Dunmer and engulf him. Instead he watched as tears made dark paths down her cheeks as she sobbed over the broken instrument. His anger melted into confusion, but before he could allow sympathy to take him Roar shook the rage back into his system. He could be cursed. The darkness had almost seemed to enter him at one point. “Curse the damned lute!” he barked at her. To emphasize his point, the Nord stepped forward and booted the lute out of her hands. Another fraction of it shattered into splinters.

Windelin’s crying ceased instantly, but before she had a chance to fully respond to what he had done Roar grabbed her cloak and yanked her to her feet. “What did you just do to me, sorceress?” he demanded again shaking her.

“Windelin did nothing!” she cried, her body falling limp in Roar’s grasp. He did not let her go. “W-Windelin did n-n-nothing…” she bowed her head, her face resting against his balled fist as she started to sob again. Her entire body trembled in his hands.

Roar’s mouth gaped open and he just stared at her. The elf had crumbled to pieces under his abuse, and all that was left now was a babbling, moist shell of a woman. Mixed emotions strung through him. The heavy hand of guilt accompanied by an unwavering fear of what he had experienced when staring into her eyes. He had to get away from her.

When Roar released her, Windelin crumbled to the ground, her arms cradling her head above the dirt as she continued to weep loudly. He cast a short glance towards the shattered lute before turning his back to the woman. He stomped away, the sound of her wails following him on the wind.