The sun hadn’t gotten very high into the sky. It was still very dark on the southern side of the Lake Ilinalta ridge, where the terrain dipped down into a bowl-like forest between the lake and the leading edge of the Jeralls. And Chip wasn’t really watching where he was going. He was simply putting one foot in front of the other, weaving his way among the trees while his mind raced.
I’m a werewolf.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the sound of bones cracking in the courier’s neck as the werewolf – no, he – closed his jaws around it. His mind kept replaying the sensations of opening a man with his hands… no, paws. He looked down at his hands. They were just normal, half-Nord hands. Calloused from the bowstring, perhaps, but normal hands.
It was a new thing to him, to be horrified by something he’d done after seventeen years of being, well, average. He’d certainly practiced at weapons over the years at his family’s insistence; but he’d never taken a life. There’d been no reason to. He’d kept to himself, honed his ability to stay hidden, and used the high ground and his bow to his advantage. He knew there were times when it was a requirement, but none of those times had happened to him. And in the past night he’d killed and eaten how many?
So many things made more sense now. He’d never been able to sleep well, not from the earliest days he could remember. His mother said that his father rarely slept either, so he’d always assumed he’d gotten that from Brynjolf. He’d always been restless; pacing, poking into every corner, getting into things that had his mother and Iona, his other caretaker, pulling out their hair. He’d always played at being a hunter; in fact, his father often told the story of how he had crept toward High King Ulfric with a bow made out of grass and sticks, saying that he was “hunting bear.” He didn’t remember that, but he did remember that toy bow he’d made, and the ones he’d crafted later, as his hands grew and his ability to draw a bowstring increased. It had been an obsession, almost, for him to master the bow.
He’d always attracted dogs and wolves. Dogs were curious about him; but dogs were curious about all people, truthfully. Wolves had always attacked, in numbers and anywhere he went. When he’d been old enough, and independent enough, all of the adults had given him training with the bow. They were all good with the weapon but none of them, not even Dardeh – who had fought Deathlords in Skuldafn – was as skilled as the Bosmer Niruin, who had been happy to give him lessons on the sly, for a price, when he emerged from the Guild’s headquarters. As a result, Chip had amassed enough pelts and enough money from them through his arrangements with Delvin that he’d recouped his costs and saved enough to build his own cabin, a place where he could roam and pace and practice and hunt in peace and quiet.
That had taken a great many wolf pelts, to say nothing of deer, elk and fox. It had almost been too easy, given how attracted to him the wolves had always been. And now he understood why. He also understood now why they’d curiously stopped attacking him, just in the past several weeks. They would come out of the undergrowth, as they always had done; but they would stop, and examine him, and sniff; and sometimes they would howl from a distance, drawing his attention toward other prey.
Now he knew. The wolves had stopped attacking because they recognized their own kind. Now he understood why he’d been restless for weeks; the moons were filling, their influence on him growing stronger and stronger until finally he’d turned.
But how? I thought you got this disease by being scratched or bitten by a werewolf. I’ve never come near one. How could it be that I am a…
He rounded a large boulder and blinked to find himself facing lit candles and what was clearly a grave, just in front of him. At the head of a mound of earth and stones was a sword, plunged well into the ground, an ancient iron helm resting atop its grip. Around the end of a short stone wall were more grave mounds, some marked with very old Nord headstones and others with additional weapons or newer granite slabs. He’d been paying so little attention that he’d stumbled into the place that gave the city beyond its claim to fame, as well as the names of its shops. Other parts of Skyrim had their spectacular, ancient barrows: this one had a huge, open-air graveyard.
Falkreath. I’ve come onto it in spite of staying off the roadways.
He looked up at the sky. It was getting lighter, but the sun still hadn’t risen high enough to bathe this low-lying city in its direct beams, not quite yet. He worked his way through the cemetery, trying to be respectful and not tread on the time-worn resting spots of heroes; but it was difficult to tell where some of the oldest graves ended and simple forest floor began. Eventually he spotted the first of Falkreath’s buildings before him. He also smelled something. Stopping to sample the air again he sensed people, freshly turned earth, and a slight whiff of decay. Nearing the Hall of the Dead – identifiable by its banners of Arkay outside the door – he heard a voice.
“The god Arkay was once like us, bound to winding mortality. But he willingly gave up his existence that we might better understand the vagaries of life and death.”
It was an old Altmer priest speaking, standing beside a grave with a couple. The Nord man and Imperial woman were clearly in mourning, the woman sniffling as the priest continued. Chip’s nose told him that this new grave was the source of the decay he’d scented.
“It is through the ebb and flow of this cosmic tide that we find renewal and, in the end, peace. May the spirit of Lavinia and all those who have left this world and its suffering know the beloved serenity of Aetherius, and may we one day rejoin them in eternity.”
The priest nodded to the couple, and then made his way back toward the Hall of the Dead through the headstones. Chip had been standing quietly and respectfully to one side, not wanting to interrupt the ceremony; but he looked up to find both the Nord and his wife staring at him.
“A sad time,” the man murmured, clearly expecting some response from Chip.
“Um,” he started awkwardly, not really knowing what a person should say under these circumstances. “Yes. Who died?”
Oh that was smooth. Da would be rolling his eyes if he had heard that.
It had been hard growing up in the shadow of a man who always knew the right thing to say, who thrived on his ability to flatter and manipulate others. That had never been Chip’s best thing, and he’d just proven it once more. The man didn’t seem offended, though. He shook his head.
“Our daughter. I’m Mathies and this is my wife Indara. It was our daughter. Our little girl. She hadn’t seen her tenth winter.”
“I’m so sorry,” Chip said softly. And he truly was. He could sense their grief, almost taste it rolling off them in great waves in spite of their stoic expressions. He found himself fighting to suppress the sudden urge to raise his face to the sky and wail aloud. “What happened to her?”
“She was…” Mathies started to speak and then his voice caught for a moment. “He ripped her apart. Like a saber cat tears a deer. We barely found enough of her to bury!”
Chip felt the hair on his neck begin to rise, his heart following suit and trying to make its way up into his throat. This was entirely too fresh an experience for him not to recognize it, especially given the fact that Mathies had said “he” and not “it.”
Did I do this? No, I couldn’t have. I remember the ones I… don’t I?
He knew that he should just offer further condolences and leave but he couldn’t bear it. He had to know.
“That’s… terrible. Who? Who would have done such a thing?”
Mathies snorted, his face taking on an expression of disgust. “Sinding.”
Just that one word sent a flood of relief coursing through Chip. He struggled to keep his expression from changing. Thank all the gods it wasn’t me. I couldn’t live with myself.
“He came through as a laborer,” Mathies continued. “Seemed like a decent man. He’s stewing in the Pit while we figure out what to do with him, if you’ve got the stomach to look at him.” He shook his head again. “What could drive a man to do something like this?”
Chip’s heart pounded in his chest. The moons. That’s what it is. The moons, and the scent of prey, and the need to hunt and howl. I don’t understand how it is that I know this to be true; but I do, and it is.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll go talk to him. Maybe I can get some more information out of him.” Without waiting for any further interaction, he turned and trotted up the now well-lighted path toward the city proper. He knew where the Pit was, deep in the underbelly of the guards’ barracks, and he was going there regardless of anything else.
Halfway up the path he realized that he was getting dizzy. He stopped beside a section of wall, putting out a hand to steady himself and lowering his head while he breathed slowly.
It’s alright. It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill their girl.
But it might have been me. I barely knew what I was doing last night. It’s a wonder I didn’t kill the bard as well. It might easily have been me. I couldn’t bear it.
Once he no longer felt as though he was going to faint, Chip straightened slowly and proceeded up the path into town. It was futile, he decided, to expect answers mere hours after having turned for the first time. This situation was going to require time, and thought, and research.
And maybe a silver bolt.
He couldn’t get it out of his mind. It was one thing that he’d shredded and consumed Forsworn, or bandits, or people who were actively trying to kill him. It was quite another to do what this man Sinding had reportedly done. If he ever attacked and killed an innocent child – well, that would require some intervention.
Bad enough I killed that lone hunter at the camp. He wasn’t doing anything to me at all.
He was in a somber frame of mind as he reached the barracks and pulled open the outermost door. There was a single guard at the table inside the barracks; the man nodded at him as he crossed the room toward the stairs down to the jail. It was a new experience for Chip to cringe at another man’s gaze, wondering whether he could be seen for what he was beneath his skin. Maybe Sinding could give him some insight. He had to know.
He blinked in the dim light of the lower level, squinting into the shadows and sampling the air before realizing that he smelled water and a trace of wolf off to his left. The Pit was, as its name suggested, the lowest part of this jail; and being as low as it was and partially open to the sky, water had seeped into it over time. As Chip approached the narrow iron gate that secured it, he could see the pool at the bottom of the Pit as well as a barefoot man in tattered trousers leaning against its far wall.
That must be Sinding.
Sinding approached the gate and climbed the few short steps to face him just beyond the gate. He was fairly scrawny, for a Nord. His build was slight, and lean, and the trousers hung loosely on his frame.
“Come to gawk at the monster?” he asked, his words sarcastic but his tone soft and almost apologetic.
Chip started to nod in agreement, but then stopped himself.
Wrong, idiot. Just tell him why you’re here.
“Not to gawk at a monster, no. But I did want to talk to you. I hear you attacked a little girl. Is that true?”
Sinding opened his mouth and shut it again; then he peered at Chip through the bars of his prison. He sniffed once or twice, and then nodded.
Ah. He can sense me, just as I can tell what he is.
“It wasn’t anything I ever intended to do,” the man said. “I just… lost control. I tried to tell them, but none of them believe me.”
Chip once again felt the hair on his neck rising. I believe you. I know just what that feels like. He didn’t dare speak, but he did nod, this time.
“It’s all on account of this blasted ring,” Sinding grumbled.
“Ring? What ring? What are you talking about?”
“This is the ring of Hircine. I was told it could let me control my transformations.” He frowned. “Perhaps it used to, but I’ll never know. Hircine didn’t care for my taking it and threw a curse on it. I put it on…” Sinding’s voice rose, both in volume and in emotion. “And the changes just came to me. I could never guess when. It would be at the worst times! Like… with the little girl.”
Chip could see him almost trembling as he spoke of it, whether from fear for his life, or exhaustion, or disgust, he couldn’t be sure. But he had a suspicion that he understood. He took one step closer to the gate and lowered his voice.
“I think I understand, Sinding. But tell me what kind of transformations you’re talking about. I really need to know.”
He sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s a point in keeping it secret if I’m going to die in here anyway. I’m sure you’ve heard of men who shift to beasts under the influence of the moons. I am one of them. A werewolf. It’s my secret, and my shame.”
Chip felt the horrors of the previous night stab him anew. He could almost feel the inescapable pull of the moons again, taste the flesh as he tore it from the courier’s bones. There had been no choice to that; he’d been directed, somehow, to kill. He closed his eyes against it and nodded, briefly. He was certain Sinding knew what he was, as well.
“That’s why I wanted the ring,” Sinding continued. “It was said to give men like me control. I may look like a man but I still feel the animal inside of me as strong as ever.”
“Hircine,” Chip murmured. “Of course.”
“Do you not know the Daedric Lord of the Hunt? He revels in the chase, and also gave the ‘gift’ of lycanthropy to mortals. A powerful force, not to be crossed. A lesson I learned too late.”
“I know what you mean,” Chip said, almost to himself. “But what made you attack the girl?”
“I had just come into Falkreath. They needed some help working the mill, and I thought that would be something safe. Something I could do. When I saw the little girl I was just… I could feel it coming on. I could taste the…” He grimaced. “I needed to hunt!”
Yes. Like a heart about to burst out of your chest. A voice, telling you to feed. I should have known it was Hircine.
“But this pitiful, limited body wasn’t meant for hunting. Slow. No claws. Weak, mashing teeth for chewing cud.”
At that, Chip peered up at him again. He’s right. But I’ve always hunted. Always. I’ve always eaten my meat nearly raw, or at least as rare as Ma would let me get away with. I’ve got a bigger build than he has, but I’ve never felt weak, so long as I had my bow. Perhaps there’s some hope for me.
Sinding was nearly growling now. Chip felt certain that if he could have transformed right then and there, Sinding would have done so.
“I held in my rage as long as I could but it boiled inside of me. She looked so fragile. Helpless prey. And then… I…” His shoulders drooped and his voice subsided again. “I feel terrible about what happened. About what I did. It would probably be best for everyone if I just… went away.”
“Don’t say that,” Chip said quietly. “I do understand. I think you can tell that I understand. It’s all very new to me. But I’m sure there’s something that can be done.”
Sinding’s eyes flickered with what seemed to Chip like a ray of hope. “I’ve been looking for a way to appease Hircine. There’s a certain beast in this land. Large, majestic. It’s said that Hircine will commune with whoever slays it. I tracked it into these woods but then I had my accident, with the child. I want to beg his forgiveness. Give him back the ring. But while I’m stuck in here the beast wanders free.”
Chip’s mind raced. He couldn’t stand sensing the raw grief radiating from Sinding. If anyone could track and kill a beast, he was that person. Before he had a chance to change his own mind, he blurted it out.
“I’ll take the ring back to Hircine. You’ll have to leave this place – Falkreath – but at least if you don’t have Hircine’s curse, you’ll have a chance to start over.”
Sinding’s eyes widened. “Oh, my. You would do this for me?” He pulled and twisted and wrestled with his own hand until the ring was off his finger, and passed it through the bars to Chip. “Here, take it. I don’t want anything to do with the wretched thing anymore.”
Chip could feel the excitement rising in Sinding’s demeanor as he slipped the ring onto his own hand. It seemed as though he could hear the man’s heart racing. He looked down at his own hand and realized that the ring was tight around his finger, bearing down into his flesh. He tried to slip it off; but it was obvious that the ring had simply transferred itself from one willing subject to the next and was not going to budge.
What in Oblivion have I done?
“Seek out the beast,” Sinding told him. “He wanders these woods. Bring him down, and, well, the Lord of the Hunt should smile on you. I wish you luck. I should leave here while I still have my skin. Should our paths cross again I will remember your kindness. Farewell.”
Sinding turned away, descending into the pool at the bottom of the Pit. Then, as Chip had suspected was about to happen, he transformed. He watched, both horrified and fascinated by the thought that this was what he must have looked like, as Sinding’s arms, feet and face lengthened, lush fur appeared on his body and a tail extended behind him. He could remember the sensations so vividly that he feared he himself would turn, right then and there; but instead he watched as Sinding howled and then leapt up the sides of the Pit, pulling himself up the timbers with his claws and finding toeholds in the rocks, and disappeared overhead.
It was an utterly glorious day, now that the sun was high in the sky; but Chip barely took note of it in his excitement. He’d always felt energized when it was time to hunt, even as a child. This time, though, there was an added element of suspense to the experience. His hearing seemed keener; he could identify every bird and rabbit rustling in the undergrowth. There were loons on Lake Ilinalta; they weren’t hard to hear on any occasion but today it seemed as though they were directly beside him. And his sense of smell? Well, that was working better than ever before. He could tell where the bandits that forever cropped up along the road to Helgen had built their latest camp, well before he reached the area. Wood smoke was easy to pick up in the air, anyway; but this time he smelled unwashed men and simmering stew as well. It was not a good combination, truthfully; he had to wonder what they’d put in that stew. Skeever seemed a possibility. At least the light breeze had the fragrance of pine constantly flowing through the air.
He dropped into a crouch as he approached the footbridge across the road, and slipped into the tall grass on the uphill side of the path. He could see boulders strewn along the cobbles; he’d known it already from the smell but this was additional, visual proof that bandits had taken up residence west of Helgen yet again. He wondered why the Jarl of Falkreath – or his Uncle Dardeh, for that matter, given that he was a Thane – hadn’t just burned that hazard to the ground by now, but apparently it had been there for decades.
As he clambered up the steep slope his heart began beating faster. What had sent him directly to this part of the enormous Falkreath forest he didn’t know; but he was certain he would find the beast Sinding had spoken of here, in this part of the woods. Maybe there was something about the Helgen area that had extra power to it, and that’s why it had drawn Alduin all those years before. He didn’t know; but the closer he rose to the crest of the slope, the more excited he became, and the more certain he was right.
There was one last boulder between him and what he knew was a relatively flat area at the base of the mountains. It was from that direction that the scents of cooking and bandits came. But there was something closer. If he strained, he could hear intermittent, soft scuffles and an occasional snort, of the kind a large animal would make while grazing quietly by itself.
He inched his way around the boulder and into a space between it and a large pine just uphill from it, and caught his breath. There in the sun, next to a small pool and a grassy dirt embankment was a beautiful, healthy elk. But it was not just any elk. This one was pure white, like a cloud in the sky, the cap on a wave or a drift of freshly-fallen snow. He’d never seen anything like it.
There you are, my beauty. You’re the one Sinding has sent me to bag. It seems a shame to mar such a beautiful pelt with an arrow but there’s no help for it. I’m a hunter; and I’m not going to let the beast inside me get you before I do it with my bow.
The bow he’d been using for some time now was a finely-crafted hunting bow, which he’d lovingly tended and improved over the years he’d owned it until it felt like an extension of his own arms. He slipped it carefully up in front of him and chose one of his best arrows. It took what felt like a lifetime to draw the bowstring and take aim; but once he loosed it, the arrow flew straight and true, striking the elk in the chest and dropping it cleanly.
“Huh,” Chip muttered, rising from his crouch to start down the slope toward his prize. “I didn’t expect it to go down with one shot.”
He hopped down over the rocks toward the elk’s carcass and then stopped short, his eyes widening. Just beyond the trophy, a bluish, translucent copy of the elk itself rose from its remains to stand beside it. The ghost elk turned to stare at him, snort, and shake its head.
“I… I…” Chip stammered. “Didn’t I just kill you?”
I’ve never been this confused in my life. Why am I talking to an elk? Why would an elk understand my words?
“And skillfully, too!” a harsh voice chuckled. It was harsh, but somehow hollow, as if coming from far away.
It felt to Chip as though he’d been hit by a shock spell. His mouth fell open and he stared, stunned, at the being before him. It took conscious effort to start breathing again. He’d heard that voice before.
“That was you! Last night! In my head! Or… at least… the creature’s head. You told us to hunt more.”
“I’ve been watching you for ages, it seems,” the voice told him. “You have the makings of a fine hunter. You may even be my champion. Perhaps.”
Your… champion? This is…
As if he was somewhere else, watching himself interact with this being, Chip heard his own voice.
“Are you Hircine?”
The ghost elk bowed its head and shook its antlers. “I am the spirit of the hunt. Just one glimpse of the glorious star that your kind calls Hircine.”
As he heard the words, Chip felt himself flooded by an emotion such as he’d never experienced before. It was a warmth, an excitement, a joy – an awe – unlike anything else.
Yes. A star. A piece of pure, shimmering power. Glorious.
“What… would you have of me?” he asked quietly.
“Your fealty is precious to me. I will make good use of it. You bear my ring. The one who stole it has fled to what he thinks is his sanctuary, just as a bear climbs a tree to escape the hunt but only ends up trapping himself. Seek out this rogue shifter. Tear the skin from his body and make it an offering to me.”
A small part of Chip’s mind tried to raise an objection. Sinding had done nothing to him; the poor man had been at the mercy of the inexorable call of the moons. But the rest of him – his mind, his body, and his spirit – were singing out a different tune.
This is the one.
When Uncle Roggi and Uncle Dardeh kneel to worship Talos, I feel nothing. When Mother or Da or Karliah say “Nocturnal hide you”- even though they say it’s not worship, not the same kind of thing – I feel nothing. I feel nothing when I pass any of the shrines to the Nine, or any of the old gods either. They offer nothing to me. They’ve never spoken to me. They mean nothing to me.
This being. He has been watching me. He understands me. I am a hunter. I have always been a hunter. This is why I am in this world. This is why I am a werewolf. He’s waited for me to be ready. I will be his champion.
“It will be done as you wish, my lord,” he said.
“Fly, my hunter,” Hircine responded. “There are others who vie for my favor. A bit of competition. Don’t dally while the prey flees.”
The ghostly elk disappeared, leaving behind the pure white pelt of the physical beast for Chip to collect, and he did so even while his spirit churned in a tumult of adoration and bliss. After so many years he at last had proof of something greater than himself; and that something recognized him, believed in him, encouraged him to press on to greater things.
He spoke to me last night, when I was a wolf. He knew I needed guidance. I will do as he asks.
He remembered Sinding telling him how Hircine reveled in the chase, and smiled. Inside, once more, his instincts told him where he needed to go to find Sinding. He turned in that direction, back to the north, and was overcome by the desire – no, the need – to do something he had never done before.
Chip Brynjolfsson dropped to his knees there on the mountainside, raised his face and his hands to the sky, and silently praised the Daedric Prince Hircine, Lord of the Hunt.
