He ran a hand through his bright red hair and shook his head as he scurried up the steep path. There had to be a way to get away from the commotion. Not only were there screaming people and angry city guards near the gate, but there also was a man dressed in robes that suggested he might be one of the Vigilants of Stendarr, stopping everyone who passed to quiz them about an abandoned house.
Where’s your sense of propriety, man? Someone just got murdered and you’re worried about a house?
He wanted nothing to do with a Vigilant right then, or any time for that matter. He jumped across the small, rushing stream, landing with one foot in it and hissing in disgust at his now-wet footwear; but he did manage to avoid the Vigilant. He scrambled up the path and across the bridge toward the upper, central part of the city.
Peering down over the edge of the walkway toward the marketplace, he watched the activity. It was like a beehive down there – or, rather, a wasp’s nest. One that had just been poked with a sharp stick.
He’d walked through Markarth’s gates just in time to watch in dismay as another Nord, blonde and in heavy armor, had almost stopped a murder. It had been a brazen murder, right there in the marketplace. The blonde man – while he had managed to send the murderer sprawling onto his back, bleeding, with a well-placed bash from a spiked shield – had not gotten to him in time to prevent the killing. A woman lay dead on the street, bleeding from a perfectly-placed stab wound.
That was not just some random event. He knew he meant to kill her and he was prepared. He’d been watching her for awhile. I’d bet my life on it.
He paced back and forth for a time, feeling agitated for no good reason. The murder hadn’t involved him. He’d ducked out of the way as quickly as he could without looking too closely at any of it. He’d gotten away before the Breton in suspiciously Forsworn-looking face paint had been able to approach him. He watched, in fact, as that same man accosted the blonde Nord – whose face he had yet to see – and waved a piece of parchment at him.
“Bah. Not my murder, not my problem,” he said to himself, turning to head away toward the smithy. He’d hoped to do a bit of repair work on his leathers before stopping in the Silver-Blood Inn for a pint and maybe a rest. But his nose wrinkled as he passed around the mid-levels of the city. He could swear he smelled blood. It wasn’t the blood of the butcher’s stall that he smelled. That was bad enough; he liked his meat rare, and he was hungry, and that meat had called to him instantly when he’d stepped through the gates. No, it was the other blood he smelled. The woman. And the murderer. It had been like that for several long weeks now, smelling blood no matter where he went. It was maddening.
Chip – not his real name, but the one by which everyone knew him – had been restless. He’d left his cabin in the Rift and wandered west on a hunting trip, looking for pelts and tusks. He’d amassed a fair amount of quality venison and goat horns as well, stopping in several places along the way to sell his wares and yet not feeling satisfied by the increasing wealth in his pockets. It didn’t seem to matter what he did. He couldn’t settle. He had walked, and walked, and walked more, wondering why he was wandering and what he was looking for; and wondering why, recently, he could sniff out the results of a battle no matter how far off the road the bodies might be.
He crouched down before the tanning rack to work at a few pieces of leather. He intended to borrow the forge, to dye them black, to see what he might do to make improvements on his own armor and maybe craft some additional bags or pouches to carry things in. Those would sell for good coin if he dyed them; anything fancier than standard brown leather always did.
He’d only been working for a few minutes when the scent of blood distracted him once more. He gritted his teeth, and frowned, and finished up what he was doing before standing and shaking his head.
I wonder if Da would be able to help me. He’s always hinted at stories of being restless, and wanting to run. He was never really clear about them – it’s always been as though he wanted me to guess what he meant, or maybe ask him what excitements he had as a younger man, but I’ve never been willing to give him the satisfaction of asking.
Chip had the misfortune that often went along with being the oldest child. His parents made it abundantly clear that they loved him and were proud of him; but somehow he’d never felt as though he quite lived up to their expectations no matter what he did. Worse still was that they never seemed able to tell him what those expectations were. He wasn’t sure they even knew, themselves, or knew how to express them even if they had known. It seemed reasonable that perhaps his father wanted him to follow in his footsteps, but Chip didn’t relish that notion at all.
I’m not joining the Thieves Guild, no matter how good old Delvin may think I am at stealing. I don’t care to make that my life’s work.
Delvin Mallory was an accomplished thief, mostly retired to the background work of arranging deals behind the scenes. To hear the older adults tell it, Delvin was the reason he was called Chip, having been caught trying to steal a coin when he was just a toddler and pronounced a “chip off the old block” by Delvin. He had no recollection of it; but at least he appreciated Delvin’s having given him his own moniker. He knew that his father used his grandfather’s name, sometimes, as a cover. As far as he was concerned, though, they could keep those names.
A Chip off the old block. Well, it doesn’t matter to me whether my father is Guildmaster or not. I’m my own man and I don’t care to be called Brynjolf, or Bryn, or even Red. Those are my father’s names. I’m Chip.
He thought, for a moment, about stepping into the inn for a tankard of mead; but after just a moment ruled that out. He frowned as the restless urge to pace grew stronger.
But maybe he’d know what’s wrong with me. I don’t want to be him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t value his insights. Maybe it’s time to go home for awhile. Sometimes a guy needs to talk to his Da.
And no matter how he looked at it, he had to admit that his father was a very smart man. He was a very successful, and clever, and clearly very beloved man by both those who knew him well and those who were taken in by his skillful con artistry and knew only his clever act. Surely he would have at least some advice to share with a son who couldn’t quite seem to settle in his own skin.
The sun was starting to dip nearer the horizon when Chip decided that he would hit the road then rather than try to mingle for the evening. He paced back and forth along the mid-levels of Markarth for a time, even going so far as to enter the old temple to Talos that had never been ripped out of the heart of the city. He stood for a moment, contemplating the statue and wondering what it was about these old mythical figures that people got so enamored of and overwrought about that they would kill each other for it. And yet his two uncles – Dardeh, known far and wide as “the Dragonborn,” and his husband Roggi, both of them well-known as war heroes and dragon fighters – both revered Talos. He just didn’t understand it. The statue always made him feel… disapproved of, in some way, and this day was no different. Talos had never spoken to him; nor did he on this occasion, either.
By the time things had cleared out near Markarth’s main gate it was nearly dark. He descended the hill past the stables and the turn-off to Left Hand Mine, breathing deeply of the crisp, cold mountain air. It was shaping up to be a beautiful night.
In fact, it was as crystal-clear a night as Chip had ever seen. If it had been a different time of the month he probably could have seen every star in existence, he thought. He certainly could smell every living thing around him: the warm, earthy scent of the horses in Markarth’s stables; the pungent, unmistakable calling-card of wet hunting dogs running up from the river; the tangy young leeks growing in the nearby farmyard; the hot, dark, metallic odors drifting down from the smelter up near the mouth of the mine. He could smell the weeds and grasses growing in the shallow pools just above the main river and the small fish that congregated there. And there were junipers, too, their sharp green scent crossing his path with every breeze. He turned in the direction of the junipers. He couldn’t see them, quite, for they were across the river; but he could smell their needles and their berries, and could tell that soon it would be time to harvest them for potions and for mead-making.
He couldn’t see all the stars, though, not on this night. There was too much light in the sky, as the moons rose up from behind the mountains: Masser huge, red, and full; Secunda cold and white, and higher in the sky. As he trudged up the hill on the far side of the river from Markarth he stopped to marvel at them. There was something intensely exciting about their nearness, their enormity, that drew him onward and upward. As the moments passed he forgot about the juniper berries; he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the moons.
As they rose farther up into the sky he felt the moons pulling him up, as well. He needed to get closer, somehow. The roadway ran through a cleft in the mountains here, carved by water over eons, with sharp ridges on either side of the passage. He ran to the top of the nearest ridge and stood, staring in amazement at the moons which he had known all his life but somehow, it seemed, had never truly beheld before.
They’re amazing. Look at them. Why have I never noticed?
His heart began beating faster and faster. There was an excitement in the moment, a sense of anticipation unlike anything he’d experienced before. He stared at the massive orbs, feeling as though they were drawing him out of himself, becoming one with them. His heart beat louder and louder, until he thought that surely anyone passing by would hear it as clearly as though it was the beating of a war drum, calling out the moment of change and attack.
And then, just as it seemed he could not bear the feeling of excitement and anticipation any longer, it happened.
A sudden, intense pain shot through his body and he watched in horror as his arms lengthened, wicked claws extending from the tips of his fingers. His feet extended outward. After that it was hard to tell what was happening to him except that he felt fur, and a tail, and his teeth became mighty fangs in a long, long snout. All of the stretching and growing was accompanied by a grisly, crackling sound as if his bones were breaking and re-forming, over and over. Scents became even sharper; sounds vivid and as clear as though they were next to his ears, in spite of nothing being there. At long last he looked up at the moons again and uttered the long, anguished howl that he’d longed to give voice to for so many hours but hadn’t known why.
Feed. Must feed.
It was a simple thought. A simple command, coming from somewhere within him, that was simple but utterly overwhelming in its intensity. Anything else that might have been in his mind was completely obliterated by the explosive internal command to feed.
He ran back down into the roadway, gleefully; for the speed and strength he felt in his body was like nothing he had ever felt before. A sound just ahead and on the downhill slope from the road caught his attention. He sniffed the air and recognized it immediately.
Bear. Meat.
He would go to the bear. He would kill the bear. He would eat the bear.
The bear saw him and roared before breaking into a charge toward him. He howled, and did the same. But the bear knew its own body, and its own strengths. The werewolf did not. They crashed into each other with claws flying and teeth gnashing; and he, not yet knowing the length of his arms or how best to use his new weapons, missed striking the bear’s vital spots again and again. He howled in rage and pain as the bear raked him with its much more practiced attacks, pierced him with its teeth and chased him, when he broke away, with a startling speed and agility. It was only by the barest of margins that he was able to turn at the last moment and catch the bear in its underbelly, finally connecting solidly with his own ten razors and then opening the beast with the equally-sharp claws on his feet.
He shook his head as the bear died. Bear blood – bear meat – was not what he wanted. It was not what he needed. He was bleeding from what felt like a thousand wounds, and panting from the exertion, and angry that he had so badly misjudged his opponent. Then he heard another sound. Softer, smaller, the regular scuffing and crunching sounds speaking of short legs and a small stride. And there were other sounds, too; a voice muttering to itself about deliveries. He ran toward it. This. This was what he needed.
The courier saw him coming and started screaming as if to frighten him away. He bared his fangs in a grin and lolled his tongue out of his mouth.
I am not afraid of you.
The courier, dressed only in lightweight clothing so as to be quick and agile, had only a single iron dagger to bring to the fight. He lasted only a moment. Chip’s jaws closed around his throat and squeezed until the satisfying sounds of snapping bones were followed by the warm, sweet blood flowing into his mouth. He bent over the courier’s body and fed, devouring muscle, sinew, fat and bone alike until his own wounds began to heal. He threw back his head once more and raised his arms, howling his triumph to the two moons. And then he thought he heard a voice.
More, my hunter.
He looked around in confusion, wondering where he should go, and then heard the calls of wolves up in the hills above the roadway. He ran through the moonlit night, madly dashing this way and that, leaping over rocks and junipers, swatting at rabbits as they scrambled frantically away from him, simply following the sounds of the howls.
He stopped short at the top of a rise. Below him was an encampment, a fire burning brightly in its center. There were men there, some in blue capes and others in furs and bone headdresses. They were trying to kill each other, shrieking and grunting sounds of hatred. He paused only a moment before hurling his body down the slope into the midst of the battle, grinning as the sounds turned from hatred to fear, rending one man apart and then the next. He snarled and snapped at each of them as they forgot to fight each other and tried desperately to kill the werewolf instead; and yet the outcome of the battle had been decided from the moment he’d come down over the hill. Their weapons hurt him, for certain, but not enough to stop him. One after another he killed and then devoured the combatants in a frenzy that seemed to go on and on.
He stopped, panting, and looked around the fire. From deep within him, that which was Chip tried – dimly, distantly, as if from far beneath the surface of a lake – to make sense of the carnage before him; but he couldn’t rise to the surface enough to puzzle it out before submerging once again.
He turned and ran away, leaping down to the roadway once more and southeastward along the river, toward the dim light that marked the tower of the Old Hroldan ruins. As he approached the place where the roadway crossed the water once more he smelled two things that made him slow. One scent was that of recently-deceased bodies, very recently deceased; warm meat. The other was a scent that made him snarl, for it was a cold, musty smell, alive and yet not alive. He saw bright, yellow, glowing eyes – three sets of them.
“You won’t leave here alive!” a harsh male voice shouted.
He attacked them. It was a short battle. They snarled at him, exposing long, white fangs; but he snarled in return knowing that his were longer and more deadly. They all tried casting a spell at him; it was a sickly, red beam that did little against the onslaught of his claws. It was as if they expected to draw life from him with the spell, as though they thought they clearly had the upper hand; but whatever trifling amount of damage he took was swiftly erased when he consumed the two corpses they had left unclothed beside the roadway. He felt himself invigorated, stronger, better than he had been just a few moments before.
Yes, he heard faintly. Well done.
Something drew him on. Perhaps it was the moons, the sources of his new strength and vigor. Down the road he ran, still restless, still excited, still wanting more.
A lone figure not far in front of him cried out in anger and outrage. He both saw and heard the man casting an armor spell on himself, and watched as the man drew a sword.
“Die, you filthy beast!” the man cried. He ran toward the wolf, seemingly unafraid, swinging the sword.
The werewolf leapt forward and took one tremendous swipe at the swordsman, who cried out as the blow sent him flying backward into the rough grasses and junipers beside the road. He landed with another cry of pain and a jangling, discordant noise besides.
The werewolf took one step, preparing to chase down and devour his prey. Then, from somewhere buried deep inside, a memory rose. The smell of the man. He recognized it. He’d encountered this being before. This was not a warrior. This was not an enemy. This was a man who sang for a living, who wandered the roads and byways of Skyrim, watching whatever there was to see and recounting it in music to share with others. The sound he’d heard was the man’s instrument, damaged if not destroyed, crying out with its own voice as it struck the ground.
He did not deserve to be eaten.
No. Run away.
Somehow, he wasn’t sure how, he pulled himself back onto the roadway. He took one step, then another; and then slowly he began to jog down the road past the fortress high atop the plateau, toward the place where the Reach skirted Whiterun Hold and a pass led up again into the forests of Falkreath. The jog turned into a run, and then he was hurtling down the road, speeding toward the little town at the junction of paths, watching as the moons began their descent and knowing he must feed again before they were gone.
There were guards at that intersection. He nearly rushed down toward them, but the movements near the town gates stopped him. Too many, and in too much light; he knew he could not attack them and hope to survive. But there was a scent, off the road, up a path to the south; he followed it and found a campfire with a lone man sitting beside it. He didn’t hesitate a moment. He hurtled out of the darkness and fell on the man with teeth and claws and consumed him before he could much more than utter one startled cry.
The moons were lower now. The werewolf blinked, and shook its head, and smelled the air. There was water nearby. A lake.
Lake Ilinalta.
He picked his way carefully over the rocks separating the prey’s campsite from the road, and dropped down onto the cobbles. In the distance he could see the moonlight reflecting on the quiet surface of the lake. He could also see a large building with braziers burning outside.
Mammoth Manor.
He walked slowly across the road toward the house, thoughts – names, perhaps – trying to filter their way up through his consciousness as a small strip of ruddy light began painting the eastern horizon. He was just about to walk up the approach to the home when another voice shouted.
“Die, you foul creature!”
A fisherman had been sitting atop a boulder near the roadway. For some reason, he decided that he must attack the werewolf that was at least a head taller than and half again as heavy as he was. It was his last mistake. The werewolf broke into a run, lunging ahead on all fours until he collided with the man, throwing him to the ground. Then he snarled and ripped the man apart, slicing from side to side with one massive paw and then the other until there were only ribbons of flesh left attached to the bones – all of which he then consumed.
He rose from the kill in a daze, looking around at the increasingly familiar scene. The moons were slipping away; still visible in the skies but fading as the rosy light from the opposite horizon began to obscure them and the stars around them. He moved quietly down to the edge of the lake, hugging the shadows and panting quietly, and then slipped into the water for a moment to clean some of the gore and the scent of death from his fur – especially the odd scent that had come from the three beings he now began to recall were called “vampires.”
In that house were two men he admired. He wanted to go to them, to talk to his Uncle Dardeh – the one related to him by blood – and his Uncle Roggi – the one whose blue eyes sometimes shone with a darkness that he, himself now felt he could perhaps understand. He’d seen it often enough, when they visited after killing a dragon. Dardeh would practically vibrate with the excitement of having absorbed the soul of a dragon. He’d explained it, that excitement, often enough. Roggi would look at him with something like a hunger in his own eyes. Sometimes, he’d said, he remembered that feeling from when he’d been a soldier.
Surely they could advise him.
Surely they would understand.
And then he looked down at himself and realized that he was covered in fur. The men who had attacked him had done so because he wasn’t human. He couldn’t go and knock on his uncles’ door; they wouldn’t know it was him. And they would attack him, and try to kill him. And probably they would succeed, because the Dragonborn had fire.
The sun rose in the east. With a suddenness that allowed for no preparation or escape, Chip’s body transformed once more, shrinking into its normal dimensions. The fur receded back to within his arms and legs; he felt the tail disappear. He reached up with his soft, human hands and felt his face once again smooth, its skin soft. He crept to the edge of the water and peered down at his reflection in its surface and saw himself: Chip Brynjolfsson of the Rift.
“What have I done?” he whispered to the air. “What have I become?”
He knew what he had done. For the entire night, he’d been, somehow, cocooned within the great beast’s consciousness, watching as it hunted and fed and hunted more. It had been him, the human part of them, that had pulled them away from the bard and let him live. But many others had not been so fortunate.
Chip wanted to be sick. But he couldn’t be. In spite of knowing what he had done, his body thrilled at the power he’d had. No wonder he’d been restless. No wonder he’d smelled the blood. No wonder he’d always attracted every wolf within leagues, ever since he was a child. They knew their own kind.
I’m a werewolf. I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve always been a hunter and now I know why.
He made his way quietly around the house back to the road, and started for Falkreath. That would be the shortest way back home.