"Damn, he got blood on the kill."

"Leave it behind. The wolves will find it .. and him." Yasguk spat on the snow and turned back toward the other hunters who had collected the other kill. They gave no other thought as they headed back toward the Stronghold. Crunzugr lay there as flakes of snow continued gathering on him and the deer which was long dead. His breathing, heavy and labored at first, started to slow down as his eyes glazed over and closed...

"...What do you think?"

"He was weak. It was inevitable."

"How quick you are to say that! If you don't want him..."

"He's worth nothing!"

"Then don't bother. I'll take him."

"Pathetic. Just like you..." 

His eyes opened suddenly as the howl of the wind became louder. That is not the wind. The howls became more prominent. A response. No, two -- three more! They were coming. Certain gruesome death was coming. Get up. His vision was a little clearer now. Off in the distance, about 10 meters, was a lone wolf. More would be coming soon. The wolf began plodding through the snow toward him. It had an inquisitive expression, but he was not fooled. Move...Move!

The wolf was just a few steps away as it opened its maw to reveal its deadly fangs. No doubt, it was glad to get the first kill before the stronger of the pack came and took their fill before him.

Uhz, uhg... "Aht!" 

The wolf's fangs flashed as it dove for his neck. He had to faster! He quickly went for his dagger with his left hand to strike back, but a surprising sluggishness slowed him down. It had to be the blood loss. The wolf was on him! His right hand reached out for the head of the wolf to get it out of his face. The wolf was quicker and turned its snout to grab onto his right hand. The smell of blood was now fresh as the wolf clamped down on the hand and shook it to maim him and continue with the kill. It wasn't enough -- the steel dagger's edge was thrust up below the wolf's chest, penetrating it. With an ear-piercing yelp, the wolf dropped its prey and dashed backward to its rear haunches to reattack. It was not immediately back on him... Crunzugr watched with confusion, as the wolf started hacking up in high-pitched coughing fits. After a minute of this, it suddenly seized up and collapsed into the snow, still twitching for a couple of seconds before finally becoming still. With the adrenaline fading quickly, Crunzugr suddenly became weak again. He was confused at what just occurred, but was was shaken out of his thoughts by the dangerously close sound of three howls piercing the air. He wouldn't last another assault...

Ralund couldn't spare another moment. He hurried up the stair, dagger in hand, and turned down the long hallway. A chill gust blew through the window open at the far end. He raced to it, floorboards groaning beneath him, and stuck his head out into the winter beyond. Wherever that hooded figure had gone, there was no trace of them, not even footprints in the snow. Out in the wilderness, wolf howls echoed.

Ralund pulled himself onto the windowsill, but his body ached in protest. Kopraan liivrah, he thought. Besides, the thatched roof was frozen like a giant's beard, and Ralund wasn't so proud as to believe he would survive a fall. Pride was yet another casualty of his past, but by no means the greatest of them. Sighing, he lowered back inside and closed the window behind him.

It wasn't until he looked up, scratching his beard, that he noticed something staked to the attic door by a knife. He dragged over a stool from a nearby room, climbed up, and pulled loose a piece of parchment. It crinkled in his hands. It was worn and leathery, goatskin like the kind he used to make as an acolyte back in Atmora. Holding the parchment, his fingers still pained from all that old scraping and rubbing.

Runes were slashed across the parchment in black, violent strokes:

[Mey bovul]
[Vulom meyz]

Ralund shivered, and not from the cold. After all this time, he thought he had escaped. Filok, he thought he had found a new life. Yet no skies were safe. This letter wasn't so much as a threat as a promise, and as Ralund knew well, the Dragon Cult was very serious about its vows.

He folded the parchment and tucked it into his bearskin vest. He needed time to think, to pray. As he trudged down the stairs, he hoped to find his guests at least as alive as he had left them.

(Your turn, Ruvgein!)

A clearer view.  That’s what outside brought as Veabris stepped back into the wind that the Mer had enough of on the way over to begin with.  Feet crunched on a thin layer of snow over what was hoped not to be solid ice underneath.

The horse was still in the wooden canopy that passed for a stable.  She looked cold, but overwise unharmed.  Veabris took a staff that had been hidden behind the horse.  It was white and topped with three glowing stones and when placed in the ground stood slightly taller than its owner.

Suddenly a small figure appeared, a cat-folk who looked just as lost as Veabris did.  She asked the Elf something about the Inn, her accent too foreign to the likes found in Cyrod to understand.  The way to the front door was pointed out, and the cat was left to figure out the rest.

 The staff served well for leaning on while thinking.  A new course of action had to be decided, or Ancestors forbid what fate would befall the one who failed the mission.  Veabris’s head turned to the cloud-filled sky, looking for a sign from blessed Merid Nunda for what to do.

The clouds broke ever so slightly, and a single ray of sunlight cut thru the fog to a spot somewhat closeby.  Veabris followed this beam to where it touched ground, even breaking into a run when the clouds started to cover it once more.  Closing off the last gasp of light as soon as the Mer fell onto the spot once illuminated. 

But there was nothing.  Nothing hidden right under the snow, nothing on the snow, there was nothing.  After the light had faded, Veabris now saw how much thicker the fog was here.  Wisps of fog danced around the highest branches down to the smallest bushes.

A sound came from a few yards ahead of the Mer as the staff’s light was swung in that direction.  Cautious step after cautious step, the source of the sound lit up in the mage’s light.

Wolves.  At least three of them.  They gathered around a body on the ground, their mouths salivating.  Veabris could sense the lifeforce in the body, it was weak, but present.  They were alive, but would be eaten without aid. 

The wolves snarled.

This is what the Lady of Infinite Energies wished Veabris to find!  This person has to be saved, for She has willed it!

Silently and graceful, the wolves fell to the magics of Cyrod.  They leapt at what they thought to be their next meal, only to find it was never there, but behind them where they were quickly hewn by raw Magicka.  

Soon the Mer was at the side of the broken and bloodied body, at this distance it could be seen that he was an Orc.  Veabris recoiled from the tainted mer, shocked and disgusted to be so close to this kind of savage. 

But the Sunna Alata, the Blessed light would not lead Veabris here if this Orc was not important to Her plans.  If this thing to be repulsed by was not in some way now blessed for greater deeds.  He was much larger than the Mer, he was not conscious, his breathe barely remained, he was dead already to most who saw him.

But not to the Ayleid.

The Elf carried the once-mer the entire way back to the Inn, the smaller form straining but pushing on.  He will live, She wills it, it will be so!

Bursting thru the door to the Inn, Veabris shouted orders to everyone present in every language that the Elf could recall.  The Orc was moved onto one of the tables and Veabris collapsed into the chair beside him.  Between gasps and coughs the Mer recited part of an Ayleidoon hymn of healing, never once letting breathlessness get in the way.

Lot grohiik jot meyz. The vulnerable neck is exposed. The alpha snarls to his left and snaps to his right. Slen do kriiaan los ok. The kill belongs to him. The muzzle opens again, tendrils of saliva dripping as it approaches the succulent flesh. Sharp, dagger-like teeth scrape against tender flesh that peels apart. Goraan sos. He savors the freshness as he closes in...

“Urrraaag!”

Muscles all over his body tensed with a great shudder, awakening him with a startle. He rolled over onto his hands and knees and attempted to straighten up. A sudden shooting pain from his right hand brought out a stunted cry as he crumpled onto his belly where he painfully curled into a fetal position. All of his past wounds made their presence known all at once, causing his vision to fade again as the excruciating pain stole his strength...

As Veabris came stumbling in the inn with an Orc in tow, Kaldmit slowly released the arrow he had nocked and put it back in the quiver. What in the name of Nocturnal? Kaldmit stared at the Elf as she put the Orc on a table and started to chant something. After a few moments, the Orc got up quickly and Kaldmit nocked an arrow, but didn't pull back. "Wo los rok?" Kaldmit asked Veabris. In that moment Kaldmit sensed something he hasn't sensed before from the Orc, pain and disease. He also had a feeling that this was the case, because he could see the glint of sweat all over the Orc also the face the Orc made indication of the pain , but the disease had a very strong smell to Kaldmit's scaly nostrols. Kaldmit halfway drew his bow just in case the Orc attacked.

Seeing the Elf burst into the inn after their short exchange, Yenkry was very surprised, to say the least. The Orismer in her tow especially helped to foster these emotions. Hearing, but not fully understanding the words of the Elf, Yenkry knew she wanted help, but the Orismer's condition convinced Yenkry otherwise. She could tell that the Orismer had been attacked by wolves, having seen wounds on herself many times before, but there were others that she couldn't make out well. Wondering where the Orismer had come from, Yenkry was tempted to ask the Elf where he had come from, but decided against it, as Yenkry was afraid to go near either of the two. As an effort to get away from the Orismer and Elf, Yenkry moved, unknowingly, towards the Argonian. As her attention was with the Orismer and Elf, Yenkry's movements caused her to bump into the table next to the Argonian, the disturbance causing her to jump back, and into the Argonian's side. 

One moment Ralund was descended the stair to find a wounded Orsimer lain across the table. Goblets were scattered the floor. One elf issued commands that fit his voice—or hers?—as naturally as a sheath fit its sword. The other elf, Nelithuun, tended to the orc with Ralund's grandfather's ancestral riding sash he had carried across the Sea of Ghosts. The dyed, roughspun yarn was now matted with blood. But no matter. This orc was close to dying himself, and Orkey would curse his hofkah forever if a man died under his hospitality.

"Ruth! Faaz! Nah!" he cursed. Those furious words slipped from his tongue so effortlessly, they were almost ritual. He stomped down the remaining stairs, forgetting the ornate knife in his hands, and rushed to the orc's side.

"Wo nos daar ogiim?" Ralund asked. He did not know who to turn to, the elves, the Argonian, or this kaaz who stumbled beside him. Eventually his gaze settled on the hooded, commanding elf whose name he didn't know."Fel ahraan! Fen rok lahney?"

"Naal Faal Shul rok fen."  The elf replied to the innkeeper as pressure was applied to the wounds.  The problem with arrows is that when they are removed, they tear more than they did on entry.  Removing them safely required skill Veabris did not possess.  Prayer, focus and a steady hand was the most this Ayleid had to offer.

The Orc appeared to be lapsing in and out of consciousness, at point snapping awake and crying out with a bestial ferocity that shook the very walls of the Inn. 

The others stood in their respective places, safe for the brother-mer, who did his best to make himself helpful, and the Innkeeper, who stayed close with more worry than would be expecting of him.

An hour passes.

The Orc has been moved to the hay covered floor, his lesions and gashes now bound in cloth.  For now he rested, though doubtful that it gave any true respite.  The two arrows once in his body now in the thin, ungloved hands of the one who had found him.  Veabris heard one of the others exclaim that they were Orc arrows as one was pulled out.  Gruth reyliikiil, Ogiim?  The Elf thought with a glance to the resting giant, sitting not far and hearing his coarse breathing. 

Then his eyes open.

Nelithuun sat in the back of the inn, intently watching the Orc as he lay on the hay. He picked up the tankard next to him on the table, looked inside it, and put it back when he saw there was nothing in it. He could really go for some water.

He looked at the inn-keeper, who seemed worried about the Orc. Nelithuun then remembered the Orc stronghold he passed by earlier in the day, and wondered if he was from it. But the thought quickly passed as he sensed consiucness come back to the Orc.

Kaldmit stepped sideways to catch himself and looked at the khajiit with pitch black eyes and grunted. A noise came from the section of floor above the Orc and Kaldmit looked up. What in the name of Nocturnal? There was a figure kneeling down and was lowering something towards the Innkeeper and the figure was looking down, focusing on the task so it didn't notice Kaldmit look up. After seeing this, Kaldmit drew his bow and shot the figure twice in each arm to nail him/her to the wall. "Huzrah! Ralund! Osos-gein los above hi!" Kaldmit said in a demonic voice.

The Argonian suddenly letting arrows loose caused Yenkry to realease a sound of fear she hadn't released since she was a kitten. Even though his voice was deep, and with a hint of a growl, and his eyes darker than night, Yenkry was drawn to him, as she felt safe near him. So, she decided to dart behind him. In wishing to know what was going on, she decided to ask the Argonian just that. "Sigoniis? Aak kaaz?" Hoping that he would understand, Yenkry drew her bow, and knocked an arrow, waiting for direction. She stayed behind the Argonian, but was in a position that allowed her to hit anybody in the room. Even though her instincts and the unusual mumuring she constantly heard during her dungeron delves kept telling her otherwise, she kept her position despite them.

The figure, pinned and bleeding, lets out a cry that makes the windows rattle. "SAH LOK DAAL!"

Before Ralund can react, the figure's form evaporates into an icy mist and vanishes with a thunderclap. Two arrows remain in the wall, blood trickling down the timbers. If he had any doubts that the Atmoran Dragon Cult was after him, he had none now. At the very least, Orkey could not curse him today.

He nodded his thanks at the siigonis and turned his attention to the Orc, who looked ready to spill even more blood. "Piraak hi bahlok? Faaz? Fent zu'u siiv faal Sonaak? Wo drey nos hi?" The questions spilled out of him, but he needed answers now more than ever.

He eyed the elf who had carried the orc. "Hi, sivaan hi daar ogiim?"

The Orc must have been speaking the language of his people, for Veabris could not understand what he was mumbling. 

"Zu'u siiv rok...naak voth grohiik." The elf replied to the Atmoran Innkeeper.

when the others saw a figure moving in the beams above their heads. 

In seconds too quick to count, arrows were shot, the figure spoke and then disappeared.

“Ni Fahliil lah,” the Elven mage said, choosing each word very carefully, “Nii jul.” 

It was well known, the animosity between Falmer and Atmorans.  This place being a nestled village of men, it would not be unheard of to find a Falmer scout around.  Though Ayleid magic was still of a higher quality, the Falmer’s grasp of magic was well known, yet this was nothing like the spells they use.  It felt as if it came from somewhere else.  It was Magicka, yes, but not a spell.  There was something Tonal about it.  Could it have been the Nordic Voice, as they call it?

A lull fell over the Inn.  None could be sure if the figure had left or still watched them.  Veabris, with staff in hand, looked to the rest, curious to what they would do.