4E 201: Morning Star
There was an icy chill across Skyrim; despite it being the middle of Sun’s Height. Several Torchubugs hung in the air their enchanting yellow light exposing a large spider deviously crawling over a fallen tree; the roots burnt and gnarled by bandits. The night was filled with the sharp clicking and splashing sound of a group of mudcrabs playing in a pool, the soft crunch of a moving figure alerted the grey shelled crabs and the smallest one waved its pincers in the air frantically before burying itself into the dirt, the larger mudcrabs followed suit as a large creature sprinted past, panting like a hungry dragon. The creature charged into the woods disappearing into the dark tree’s the distant noise of cracking twigs and rustling branches alerting the woodland creatures to its presence, foxes scurried into their dens and birds swooped to Secunda in fright, only one shadowy figure stepped into the woods following the beast’s path.
In a small clearing within the woods a lone hunter sat by a campfire stroking his loyal dog, two rabbits were fixed onto a spit above the illuminating fire, the scent of grizzling fat and the sound of roasting meat teased the hunters senses; making his mouth water. The dog’s ears stuck up and he began to let out a low growl, a dark shadow fell over the hunter and as the man turned around he saw a horrific sight crouched on the rocks above him; preparing to strike, there was a scream of pure terror a loud crunch and then silence.
Shawk watched from the shadowy treeline as the werewolf munched brutally on the guts of its prey, sinking its teeth into the belly of the limp, unmoving hunter. The hunter’s dog had fled into the forest after his master had been killed and Shawk could see its sad, frightened eyes on the other side of the clearing. Holding a Nordic short sword in either hand Shawk began to slowly creep forward towards the beast; it was concentrated on the butchered hunters’ corpse and couldn’t hear the ex-Witch Hunter approaching him from the left side. He was now within arms’ reach of the wolf man and he could smell the rotted flesh between its teeth and the stench of its body odour, it smelt like wet dog. Raising both blades Shawk brought both arms down in one motion, the swords connected cleanly with the werewolf, one of the weapons cut down the beasts back leaving a deep slash whilst the other struck near the creatures shoulder slicing cleanly through its arm.
Howling in pain the fur covered beast reared up knocking Shawk backwards onto the dirt, the clumsy creature fumbled in vain with his arm; desperately trying to reattach the missing limb. Rising from the ground Shawk unsheathed his silver long sword from its scabbard on his back and stared pitifully at the one armed beast; if it stood up straight it would hit about 7’11, covered head to toe in dark brown almost black fur, it had long bony fingers on its remaining hand with dirty, blood stained nails, his face looked like that of a wolf but with a longer snout and black teeth, its eyes were completely white and blank of expression and its ears matched that of the Altmer. The werewolf let out a blood curling roar but Shawk stood his ground and proceeded to let out an equally ferocious snarl before charging the monster, as Shawk got within range of the werewolf it swung its claws in a viscous swipe aimed at Shawks upper torso, as the beasts chipped nails sliced towards the ex-Witch Hunter he slid onto his knees; skidding across the dirt and between the werewolf’s legs, stumbling to his feet Shawk spun his body around whilst swinging the silver long sword in a deadly upwards arch towards the werewolves neck with both hands.
It was early dawn when Shawk emerged from the woods the sun’s rays shone across Whiterun plains, the werewolf’s head was strapped to his back hanging like a trophy over the silver sword; a leather strap pulled tight around its throat to stop the flow of blood. Shawk could feel a tingle in his skin that slowly advanced to a stinging pain, the flesh of his bare muscular arms started to redden slightly and his sight was blurred in the light; he pulled a light brown burlap hood over his bald head shading his face and rubbed a mud coloured salve over his bare arms. Shawk continued forward at a brisk pace; striding across the open plains, a low rumbling growl stopped him and turning he saw a large brown furred dog with long baggy ears and a drooping nose, belly pressed to the ground and ready to pounce. Shawk didn’t move, he stayed as still as the shrines of Talos and watched as the dogs curiosity got the better of him, slowly the brown furred dog took a long, slow step forward, followed by another, and another until the mutt was leaning forward sniffing the strange man with the wolf head on his back, Shawk watched the dog investigate his leather boot; sniffing it loudly before chewing inquisitively on his leather boot strap. When he was sure the dog had completely forgotten about him he snarled loudly startling the poor animal and sending it racing back for the safety of the trees. “Stupid dog, that’ll teach it!” Shawk muttered whilst shaking his head.
Walking over the grassy field was oddly relaxing, early morning birds sung from the skies and the forest at his flank, the soft tundra wind forced the long yellow grass into a bow and produced a quiet whistling sound to the air, stepping over a dark grey rock buried into the earth Shawk continued walking the head of the werewolf bouncing against his spine.
Shawk walked past Honningbrew meadery the sweet smell of honey wafted out through the open windows and reminded Shawk of his nights in the Witch Hunters; drinking with the other Hunters before and after slaying some deadly monster, a female wood elf Shawk had got to know as Nimriel was leant against the wooden fence bordering the farm next to the meadery, she smiled politely to him as he passed, “Good morning Tolgan, back from some great adventure I bet!”
“Could say that.” Shawk grunted, gesturing to the head on his back.
“I had my share of excitement last night, a giant wandered onto the farm, before it could kill anyone the companions swooped in with a blonde Nord in an iron helmet, quite handsome if you’re into racist rebels,” the Bosmer laughed, “No offence.”
Shawk grunted in reply, “Got to go Nimriel.” Before walking off.
The stables were empty at this time in the morning, Skulva Sable-Hilt leant against a splintered wooden post with one black horse stood behind him, “Got the fleetest steeds in all of Skyrim!” He called to no-one in particular. Other than the horse and stable master a lone carriage driver sat upon his carriage crunching on an apple, “Need a ride Tolgan?” He asked.
Shawk shook his head without stopping and continued walking under the crumbling stone arch-way, the cobbled stones clicked under his heels as he walked up the path towards the gates of Whiterun and a sentry positioned in a wooden watchtower looked down warily at the trophy adorning Shawk’s back. The old wooden bridge creaked underfoot as Shawk crossed into an opened space that harboured the gates to Shawk’s home city, two guards stood at either side of the gate dressed in dusty yellow tunics with ridiculous steel helmets shaped like the acorn helmets he’d seen Bosmer warriors wear. “Halt monster slayer!” One of the guards called, stepping forward, “that’s a mighty fine trophy you’ve got there, the men would love one of those hung up in the barracks!”
“This is going to Dragonsreach.” Shawk replied.
“You know, I use to be a bounty hunter like you, coming and going from Whiterun every day; bringing in different trophies all the time, but then I took an arrow to the knee!”
“Can I enter, or do you intend to bore me with your life stories ‘til I put my sword through you.” Shawk warned.
“If you weren’t rubbing shoulders with the Jarl I’d have you thrown into Dragonsreach dungeons myself but… you may enter.” The guard said through gritted teeth.
Shawk brushed past the guard before placing a large, gloved hand on the dark wood door and pushing it open and stepping into Whiterun. From the entrance to the city Shawk watched the bustle of life in the plains district, a Redguard blacksmith argued with a Battle-Born over a shipment of weapons behind the glow of a raging fire pot, whilst the Battle-Born’s little girl extorted money from a boy of the same age behind The Drunken Huntsman. Shawk marched up past his house; Breezehome, and carried on up to the market stools, more Battle-Born’s argued with an old women over a kidnapping or some such, they’d become a plague on this city since Ulfric Stormcloak had murdered the high king Shawk thought. Walking up the stone steps into The Wind District Shawk looked up at the Gildergreen its once magnificent branches, grey and dead, a redguard in studded armour ran over to Shawk, “Amren.” Shawk greeted the warrior.
“Heard anything new on the thief?” Amren begged.
“My contacts tracked him to a group of bandits hid hear in Whiterun hold, you’ll have to hire The Companions or the Whiterun guard to clear it out and find your sword, I’ll mark the hideout on your map.” Shawk said whilst marking a cross on the Redguards map.
“Thank you Shawk I’ll get the money and hire someone to retrieve it by the evening.”
Shawk bid farewell to Amren before walking onwards towards the peak of the city; Dragonsreach, he cursed under his breath at the robed man waving his arms frantically towards the shrine of Talos and preaching his annoying nonsense, Shawk diverted from his path and crossed over the shallow waters towards the preacher, “…Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? Do the elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives?” he screeched loudly.
“Heimskr you bloody fool, stop your ravings or one of these days someone’s gonna put you down.”
“Confess your sins aye kneel before the mighty Talos and trust in me, Tolgan, trust in the words of Heimskr, for I am the chosen of Talos!” The foolish priest shouted.
Shawk had heard enough of the fool in the years he’d lived in Whiterun, clenching his fists he started forward, forcing the priest to tremble at the sight of the monster slayer in front of him, the head of one of his kills hanging menacingly from his back, “Talos guide me!” The priest wept, collapsing to his knees at Shawk’s feet.
“You’re a bloody mess Heimskr!” Shawk raised his fist.
“M-message for you sire.” A shy voice stuttered from behind.
Shawk turned and saw a courier dressed in nothing but a pair of fur shoes and a dirty loincloth, shivering in the wind. "I been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver. Your hands only." The naked courier stuttered.
Turning from the weeping priest Shawk stared at the shivering Breton, “Gonna get cold tonight. Might want to at least cover your delicates." Shawk said, remaining straight face.
“I lost a bet with some friends.” The couriers cheeks reddened as he shakily held out a folded piece of letter.
As soon as Shawk plucked the letter from his hands the naked courier ran off into The Plains District and out of sight, Heimskr cowered by the shrine of Talos as Shawk walked over to a nearby bench and propped himself on the edge before opening the letter. The paper was dirty and torn in several parts but the words were easily visible, and the name written at the top caught his attention straight away for it was a name he had not heard in thirty years, a name that he’d assumed all those who’d know who it belonged to were dead and forgotten, a name that brought nightmares to the vampires of Tamriel, it was his name, Shawk.
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