With faded blue eyes, he watched the filmy surface of the pond, nearly orange as it reflected the light of the rising sun, as it rippled lethargically as the wind coursed across it. All the world seemed caught and held, trapped in that moment of dawn-kissed stillness. The breeze carried gentle sounds to his ears: the rustling of the leaves, the tentative morning songs of birds, the stirrings of his horse. As he sat on the ground, arms propped on his angled knees, the man drank it all in, eagerly, thirstily. He let the forest in all its untouched, uncorrupted beauty wash over him, carrying him away on its tide until the moment he would pull himself away, back on his Path.
Time passed unremarked as the man observed the business of the wood. A falling leaf held his full attention as it followed a meandering course from branch to pond, alighting with an unlearnable grace atop the water. The antics of a family of squirrels on the far side of the pond brought a gentle smile to his scruffy, wide-jawed face.
As the light falling like gentle, heavenly beams through the autumnal canopy began to fade, he rose.
A paw of a hand moved to stroke his unshaven chin as he turned his back on the pond and walked the few paces back to his meager camp, consisting solely of a bedroll, a few traveling bags, and a simple fire pit. His dapple gray gelding whinnied in greeting, his head lowered and his lips drooped in relaxation.
"Good morning to you, too," the man said, his voice thickly Nordic.
The horse offered no resistance as the man loaded him up, speaking in a soft, soothing voice and stroking the fur with a calloused hand the whole time.
Dressed in his simple, worn tunic, with a sword on his belt, the man took hold of the reins, and with a clicking sound, walked his horse back to the dusty road to continue on his Path and to carry the ill news.
His ride began as his morning had: with nothing but serenity.
When he met a merchant cart, he stopped it to give the warning to its driver, an unusually small and rather eccentric fellow.
"You won't want to be on the road alone, friend," he told the little man.
With a cocky smile and a pat on the crossbow across his lap, the little blond, almost dwarf-like merchant replied, "Folks've been tellin' me that for years, friend, years and year. 'Billy,' they'd say, 'Billy, you just can't be out on your own in Skyrim these days.' But here I am! I'm tougher than I look, good fellow, yes, that I promise you."
The Nord smiled darkly, a sadness in his eyes. "I believe you, Billy," he said, not hesitating to call the Breton, for that's what he pegged him for, by his name, "But it's not bandits that I'm warning you against. There's another danger out on the roads, and I wouldn't overestimate your odds against that foe, capable as you may be." That much was true. By the Nine, the Nord himself didn't fancy the idea of coming across this danger himself, and he was a trained warrior, confident in his skill at arms. This little merchant, this Billy... He would be cut apart.
However, Billy didn't seem overly affected by his words. "Appreciate the concern, friend, I do, really, but I'm not certain-"
"Please," he interrupted, hating to speak so rudely, so firmly, even though coarse commands suited his harsh voice and scarred face, "Get yourself to a city, a walled city, and stay there."
Billy's eyebrows raised, and perhaps something in the Nord's voice had reached him. The Nord couldn't be sure. After saying their farewells, the two parted, and Billy's path from then on would have to remain a mystery. But the Nord's Path was clear to him. He continued on, his urgency renewed.
"Hail, there!" cried a voice from his flank. Stopping his horse with a guttural noise and a touch, the Nord turned to face the source of the call.
Bushes and branches parted to admit the passage of a sinewy figure, clad in leather. A Bosmer, if his stature and facial structure were any indication. With a quiver and a string of squirrels across its shoulder and a bow in hand, the elf approached.
The Nord responded with a loud, surprised chuckle. "Faendal!" he said with wide arms and a wider grin.
The two came together, clasping hands and pulling each other for a tight embrace.
"Gods," Faendal gasped, looking like a child when standing next to the giant of a Nord, "I'd forgotten how deadly your hugs could be!"
That earned a hearty laugh, though it slowly faded. When he addressed the elf again, though, he filled himself back up with energy. "Faendal," he beamed, his tone suggesting his voice existed solely to speak his friend's name, "It has been too long."
"It certainly has, Einarr. It certainly has."
"I was actually just on my way to visit," he said, "I've business in Riverwood."
"I wish it wouldn't take business to make you visit. Camilla and I were just saying how we wished you would let us have you as a guest for a fortnight, you know. What sort of business, would draw you back our way, though? After you wed Camilla and I, well, that doesn't leave any other marriages to perform. Why would Dinya Balu send you?"
"Would it were a wedding," Einarr sighed, "It's nothing so happy. I carry a warning."
Faendal, who had been stroking the familiar horse, responded with an inquisitive look.
Einarr continued, "You've heard about the recent attacks on the road, I'd wager?"
"Yes. Bandits getting more active. Figure it's because the dragons are gone; they can't count on those beasts to do the damage they need done."
With a shake of his head, Einarr cut back in, "No. Not bandits. At least not of the ordinary sort. Come, I need to reach Riverwood by nightfall. I will tell you on the way."
They walked side by side, Faendal with his freshly killed meat, and Einarr with his horse's reins in hand. With a grave sorrow on his brow, Einarr began the tale.
"People see Orcs as savages. Violent, lawless creatures with a thirst for blood. There's truth there, I suppose, but they aren't without rules. Without laws. They follow a code of honor, or something close enough to make no difference. No thievery, no violence for the sake of violence. And they punish violators with, well, far as I can see, torture. Bleed them for their crimes. It is brutal, barbaric, but apparently, effective for them.
"Orc chiefs are the only ones allowed to have children, and all of those children compete to become the next chief. The only way to do that is to kill their father in a duel.
"I can see you are wondering why I have learned all this, Faendal. I have had to learn. It is an Orc we are dealing with. His name is Uruk. And he is... feral. He came from nowhere, all of a sudden. First it was Heartwood Mill. I was traveling on my Path, my circuit for Mara, and when I made my usual stop at Snowshod Farm, I found it burned. Piles of ashes, and among them, the mutilated bodies of the people who lived there. Then, it was Heartwood Mill. The same thing there.
"It's been days since then, and we've only seen more of the same. I managed to piece together sightings, trying to find who was responsible. And then... I found him."
Faendal interrupted again, unable to stop himself. "You found him? How did he escape you?"
"By burning Ivarstead. But not before he gave me this." There was a heavy, self-deprecating smile on Einarr's face as he indicated a fresh scar across his cheek. Faendal had not noticed it at first simply because Einarr's face was already riddled with scars, the origins of which were still kept from him. "I could pursue him or help evacuate the town. I could not do both."
Faendal was silent. Einarr continued.
"He was a hideous creature. More gray than green. Bald, but with an intricate pattern of scars on his forehead, all across his black war paint. Twisted, hunched. Vile in form and in words. There was a fire in him, like dragonfire. And his daggers, black as ebony, but burning, burning, and jagged, made for tearing... Faendal, you know I have spent these past years purging tombs of undead, clearing out bandit forts, and wiping out vampire dens... but never have I seen anyone, anything so... So dark. Like a demon, straight out of a nightmare. And... As I said, chieftains are the only orcs allowed to breed. This Uruk, he was a son of the chieftain in his stronghold. When he... forced himself upon one of his father's brides, he was bled. Thoroughly. Carved. Castrated. And ultimately, exiled. It is this vengeance he is turning on the world. On our world.
"I do not know how to hunt him now, so I am doing what I can do... Continuing on my Path, only now instead of carrying words of Mara's love, I am warning those outside of city walls to get to safety. Riverwood is my next stop."
"Well, then we can't waste a moment," Faendal replied, Camilla on his mind. If this Uruk was on the roads, attacking settlements... Faendal would have to get his new bride to Whiterun, and quickly. Riverwood would burn all too quickly, all timber and hay.
The world faded as the sun set, but there was no peace. The music of the forest seemed now to be more a dissonant racket, and even Einarr's horse was ill at ease as everything lost its edge in the falling darkness. The branches and leaves above blocked the sky, and only vague bits of the moon and wisps of black cloud could be made out. Faendal was silent, and Einarr did not try to make pleasant conversation as he would have otherwise. A weight was upon him, horrible and oppressive.
Night was nearly upon them when they reached the Standing Stones. Einarr was weary, and he knew his horse could hardly manage to stay upright at this point, but something in the sky ahead caught his sight and everything seemed to just plunge.
Faendal saw it, too. "Is that..." he began, his voice shaking.
"Smoke."
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