Chip rose to his feet after a few moments of quiet meditation that seemed to have held all the bliss he’d never felt before. Never in his life had he felt so certain that he was meant to be doing exactly what he was about to do. Never had he felt such a sense of purpose, or direction. Never had he been so convinced that there was a reason for his being alive.
It occurred to him that he’d seen Queen Frina in this state once or twice, when he’d been in Windhelm visiting. His Uncle Roggi had, if their stories were truthful, once been married to Queen Frina’s late sister, although Chip had always had a hard time imagining it; and Roggi liked to take Chip along when he went to visit Windhelm. The Heir Apparent – or High Prince, or whatever title was appropriate to his station – Harald, was just a few years younger than Chip, and they played together once Harald was old enough to be anything more than a small, blonde nuisance. He’d seen Frina at her devotions, sometimes. She was, in spite of the tales people told of Stormblade, the heroine of the civil war, the most pious person he’d ever encountered. Not even King Ulfric – who had started a war over Talos worship, so they said, could come close. The look of rapture on her face as she gazed at the statue of Talos had always been something that had both fascinated Chip and made him envious.
I never felt that about anyone, or anything, and it always made me feel left out, somehow. Or inadequate. Or flawed, that I not only didn’t but couldn’t find it in me to worship one of these deities.
But now I know what it all is about.
He practically flew back down the side of the foothills, down to the wide valley that held Lake Ilinalta, and along its banks as quickly as he could move. It was probably a beautiful day. There were probably a great many deer and elk and other game that he might have stopped to hunt. He didn’t want to take the time to stop. All he knew was that he needed to get to the other side of the lake, around to the northern flank of the hills. There, he was sure, was the place he was meant to go.
As he ran, the sound of the voice he’d heard echoed in his mind, harsh and yet encouraging. “You may even be my champion. Perhaps,” it had told him. He knew that voice, and not just because it had spoken to the werewolf in its first moments. He’d heard the voice before.
Why do I remember the sound of that voice? It’s nothing like Da’s voice, or Delvin’s, or anyone else I’ve met in Riften. But I know it. I’m not crazy. I hope.
He crossed the road bordering the lake. He was so focused on getting across it that the arrow that grazed his cheek took him completely by surprise. He jumped, and grabbed his bow, looking around wildly. There was a skeleton jumping down onto the road from the ledge above him; and as it approached it put away its bow and pulled out what looked to Chip like an ancient Nord war axe.
“Get out of my face!” Chip yelled, loosing an arrow at almost point-blank range. “I have things to do!” The skeleton crumpled into its constituent parts and fell into the roadway. Chip snorted, stowed his bow, and ran back up the road and onto the grassy verge of the lake.
He was passing the place where a long footbridge led out to a Dunmer settlement on islands in the lake, when a rabbit leapt out of the grass in front of him, startling him. It ran up the nearby embankment and darted across the long, flat plateau toward a set of small standing stones. He was seized by the urge to chase it; and, pulling his bow out in front of him, did just that. Halfway across the open space he was hit full-on by a memory that stopped him cold in his tracks.
He’d been small, maybe six or seven years old. With his scaled-down bow in hand he’d prowled the expansive vale around his home, pretending to hunt. Frogs near Riftvale’s lake had always been a good target. He’d taken down one or two bullfrogs in the past and, in spite of the fact that the arrows made a true mess of their carcasses, had hauled them home in triumph only to have his parents laugh at him. He knew, at this point, that they’d been laughing because he was a cute child and his seriousness was amusing; but at the time he’d felt the sting of ridicule. And then there had been the rabbit.
He would never forget that rabbit. He’d spotted it hopping from place to place in the grasses along the shore, stopping to chew a green shoot or a clover before moving on to the next. He’d crept up on it, slowly drawing his bow and nocking an arrow with his heart pounding in his own ears. It was painfully slow progress; for every time he thought he might have a shot the rabbit had hopped a length or two away. At last, while the creature was intent on a tall piece of bright green grass, he’d released the arrow and watched in complete glee as it pierced the rabbit’s side. He stood, and threw his hands in the air in triumph, and ran to collect his prize and his arrow. That’s when he’d heard it. The voice.
Well done.
He’d been certain that he’d heard it, and had looked around to see who had congratulated him on his kill. Then, the excitement of taking the trophy back to his parents had overshadowed everything else, and he’d forgotten the voice.
Chip watched as the rabbit before him ran around the center of the old monument. Its hurried flight was noisy, for a rabbit; and when it ran over what appeared to be an old trap door there was a resounding thump. But Chip just stared blankly as it ran off.
That was him. It had to have been him. That’s what he meant when he said he’d been watching me for ages. He’s always been with me, and I just didn’t know it.
For a moment he considered lifting the trap door the rabbit had crossed. There was a faint scent of decay coming from beneath it, a scent that piqued his interest. Then he shook his head. He needed to move. Even now the other hunters after Sinding might have beaten him to the prize. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He shook himself back into awareness and ran further along the shoreline. At the mill, he chose to swim across. It was quite possible that his uncles were outside, enjoying the deck that overlooked the lake. He wanted to talk to them, but he had no time. Not right now.
It was late afternoon by the time he finally reached the entrance to the cave that had drawn him there. He saw footprints outside its entrance. Multiple people had gone in. He didn’t see any prints leading back out. He took a moment to get himself a drink of water and then checked that his favorite arrows were at the ready before taking a deep breath and stepping inside the cave.
Here we go.
It was damp, and green, and smelled of growing things inside the entrance. The stones on either side were slick and mossy and close enough together that he reconsidered his weapons, stowing his bow and pulling out the Bosmer shortblade his mother had given him. That, and a dagger in his left hand, would work much better in close quarters, at least until he’d gotten his bearings. His heart started beating faster, and louder, as he slipped down the passageway toward the dim light at the end.
He could hear the sounds of pursuit from within the caverns beyond the passageway. He was beginning to pick up the scents of men, and Khajiit, and blood. But his heart was beating faster and faster, and it dawned on him that much the same thing had happened to him on the previous night, when the moons had called to him.
No! The sun isn’t even completely down yet! I can’t be about to…
He looked down at his hand and saw Hircine’s ring, clamped onto his finger so hard it might never come off again. In dismay, he remembered Sinding’s distressed exclamation: “And the changes just came to me. I could never guess when. It would be at the worst times!”
A ferocious pain shot through his chest.
No, not now! I need to hunt now! Hircine told me to…
He became aware of himself again after a time. How much time, he didn’t know. He stood in a great cavern, seemingly open to the sky. It was dark, at least; a reddish haze hung over the whole area and he could see stars through it. He looked down at himself and saw the long arms and claws of the beast, the dark red fur that mimicked the color of his own hair.
Werewolf.
Next to him was a small fire, burning brightly, the center of a campsite with bedrolls and tents set up around it. Great pools of blood covered the ground. There were four bodies there: two Khajiit, an Orc, and an Imperial mage that had apparently tried to take shelter in one of the tents, but who had been dragged out and eaten regardless. Chip’s mouth tasted of fresh blood, and raw meat; and looking down at his claws he saw them dripping with gore.
My kills.
He heard a howl, above and behind him, and swung around to face into the cavern. A passage led through it, flanked by high rocks on either side. He lifted his muzzle and howled a response, then ran down the passage toward the sounds he’d heard, following the scent of fresh blood. He passed a body, and then another, both torn to ribbons and consumed; and he could tell by the scent that Sinding had taken these.
He rounded a corner. Bats, startled out of their perches beneath a dirt overhang, flew up and past him, and he swatted at them as he continued through. Then he looked up. Between the walls of the passage Masser glared at him, red and nearly full, menacing in the ruddy light. Above him he sensed movement.
“You!” Sinding called out, weakly. “Why? I never thought I’d see you again.”
Chip answered. He was surprised that he could speak in this form. He recognized his voice as his own but it was overlaid with a guttural quality that made it harsh and rough.
“I’ve been told to kill you.”
There was a pause before Sinding answered. “And I would deserve it, wouldn’t I?” The tone of his voice was one of resignation, but there was something else as well that Chip couldn’t identify. Pain, perhaps? He wasn’t sure. Sinding started to speak again.
“So….”
His voice suddenly cut off in a gurgle. Chip followed the sound. To his right was a short staircase; he ran up it and onto the ledge it led to, then around to his left where a long protrusion of rock hung over the opening he’d just come through. There in the path was Sinding, in a pool of his own blood, trails of it on the boulder telling how he’d died, sliding down the rock to collapse at its base. He was covered in slashes, and puncture marks, and several particularly deep cuts still bubbled with blood as his heart finished its work for good.
Chip howled in dismay. I have failed! Hircine tasked me with the death of this shifter and I was beaten to the job by the other hunters! His first chance, perhaps his only chance to commune with the being he now accepted as his deity, and it had been taken from him by cruel chance. He howled again, in despair, wondering what his life would be worth now if he couldn’t even complete this one simple task.
He thought back to what Hircine had told him. There was to have been competition. It was clear that there had been. Chip himself had consumed four hunters; he’d come past at least two killed by Sinding. Perhaps there had been more. Definitely competition. He was to have torn the skin from Sinding’s body and made it an offering to Hircine. He peered down at Sinding’s carcass and realized that in spite of the competition, Sinding still wore his skin.
He fell on the carcass, eagerly ripping at the skin with his teeth and claws, pulling and tugging at it until at last it hung limply across his arms. Nothing but a bloody mess remained of the werewolf at his feet.
The skin, Hircine. I have it.
To his complete amazement, a specter rose from Sinding’s remains. This time, though, it was not an elk; nor was it a werewolf spirit before him. This spirit took the aspect of a man – slightly built, wearing only tattered trousers. It looked like Sinding had, as he had appeared in the pit of Falkreath’s prison.
“You’ve done well, hunter,” he said.
“I’ve done as you asked and taken his skin,” Chip responded, praying that Hircine would find that sufficient.
“And found my favor,” the spirit answered him. “That skin will serve you well, child. Look more closely at it. My glory will protect you from all the world’s grievances.”
Chip looked at the skin and saw that it had changed. It was clearly a piece of armor, now; and he could indeed feel Hircine’s energy in it. But he shook his head.
“I cannot accept this, my lord,” he said sadly. “I hunted Sinding, as you asked, but I lost myself when the moons overcame me. I am too new at this. I did not kill him; I merely took the skin that some other hunter deserved. Please, let me keep the ring instead. I should be the one to bear its curse, because I failed you.”
Hircine’s aspect crossed his arms, and he shook his head. “No. By bringing down the other Hunters, you turned the chase inside out! And they were no base prey. You continue to amuse and impress.” He nodded at Chip. “Go forth, with my blessing.”
The skin-armor vanished from Chip’s arm. He felt the death grip the ring had been exerting on his finger relax; at the same time it warmed for a moment.
“Thank you, my lord Hircine,” he whispered – or at least as close to a whisper as he was able to make in his werewolf form.
“Good hunting!” Hircine said – happily, Chip thought. Then the specter vanished.
In a daze, Chip wandered around the rest of the grotto. He saw three more corpses, next to a pool on the far side of the ledge where he’d found Sinding. The scents told him that these three had been the ones who had caused Sinding’s death. He had ripped all of them wide open; but in the end the wounds they’d inflicted on him had been too grievous to survive.
He went back to the ledge, to a place where someone had made a rough hay bed before an old shrine. It had been two days and nearly two nights since he’d rested, and in that time he’d transformed to a werewolf, twice. He was exhausted. He curled up on the hay, and fell asleep almost instantly.
Chip emerged from the cave, blinking and squinting as he stepped from the dim passage into the bright sunlight. Shielding his hands with his eyes, he surveyed the area, looking for movements. There were plenty, across the old cobbled roadway out onto the plains of Whiterun Hold, particularly in the westernmost areas. Something told him to go north, toward Rorikstead. It was a long, open expanse out there, and he would have more game than he could possibly hunt right in front of him. He smiled up into the sunny sky as he sank to his knees and once more prayed to Hircine to guide his hunt.
He walked slowly out into the open and down the short path to the roadway. He was in no hurry. If he glanced to the east he could see clouds rolling in from the south, filling in around the base of the Throat of the World. High Hrothgar was still visible, though, up on its frosty plateau; so he knew it would be good hunting weather for some time to come out here on the plains.
And he wanted to hunt. He always wanted to hunt but this day felt particularly special, and his desire to hunt was particularly sharp. He trotted past the lone farmhouse next to the old cobblestone roads and down the slope that led to the plains. Once he was well past the structures he pulled out his bow and began searching.
He headed straight north, roughly parallel to the road that led to Rorikstead. At first he was disappointed; only a few foxes and pheasants darted out from the undergrowth before him, and he didn’t want to waste perfectly good arrows missing them. He could see deer, far across the plain, near the solitary hilltop that dominated the central portion of Whiterun Hold. It would have taken a miracle and some sort of divine intervention for him to make a shot that long, so he didn’t bother. He kept going north. He didn’t know why, but he needed to go north.
He passed, at some distance, a cave opening with a yellow flag posted just outside it. He knew better than to get closer; those flags usually marked a cave that had been set up for housing a group, and the groups were usually bandits. He wasn’t interested in fighting people at the moment. Turning west toward the road another movement near a rock outcropping caught his eye. It had been brief enough that he hadn’t been able to determine what he’d seen; but something was there and he wanted to find it.
As he neared the ledge he saw a quick flash of red once more. That was what he’d seen: a flag of some sort. Rounding the corner of the rocks he gasped.
There was a shrine here, its primary feature a carved stone altar with a convex top surface. Those were common enough. Behind it, though, was a thick wooden post that held not only the red banner he’d seen – red and gold, tapering to a sharp point, with a stylized deer in its center – but also a magnificent deer skull, its antlers long and sharp. A brazier burned on the stone ledge just above the shrine and to its left.
Chip fell to his knees and raised his hands. There was no question as to whose altar this was.
“Here I am, Lord Hircine,” he murmured. “Thank you for drawing me to your shrine. Guide my hunt, and I will make an offering to you of any pelts I may acquire.”
He felt warmth flood over him, as well as a sense of purpose. He nodded to himself and rose to his feet, ready to move east onto the plains and hunt animals.
Am I going crazy? I don’t think so. I expect no favors from a Daedric Prince. The hunt will be just as difficult as it ever was. But I feel him watching me, and this is good.
He turned back to the east and south, moving into the tall grasses. Back and forth, back and forth his head swiveled; not so much for his vision – for, while it was very sharp, it was still human vision and could only see so much – but for his hearing. He had always been able to pick out and differentiate between the sounds made by different animals, and by the wind moving through trees, or grasses. It had come from countless hours of listening, outside by himself in the seclusion of Riftvale as a child and then, later, in the area surrounding the city of Riften and Lake Honrich. Now, it seemed, his hearing was even keener than before. He swiveled his head to catch sounds from all directions; for sharp as his senses were he could not swivel his ears as a deer could.
He swept right, to the east, at the sounds of distant hooves, and paused on the side of the slope, using the tall grasses to conceal his movements. Peering out across the plains toward Whiterun he saw nothing for several heartbeats. Finally, yes, there it was. A deer had been spooked, either by him or by something nearer it; it ran along the edge of the stream, away to the north. It was moving too quickly to bother trying to shoot. To its south, though, more movements caught Chip’s eye. There were two elk, grazing quietly, blending in to the grasses and practically invisible before the rocky outcropping next to which they stood.
Chip grinned, and lined up a shot on the nearer of the two – nearer only by inches, but still far enough away that it was hard to tell whether he was shooting at an elk or a rock. He loosed his arrow and waited. One heartbeat; two; and the elk dropped. Its companion, a male with a massive rack of antlers, looked up just in time for Chip’s second arrow to pierce it neatly.
He dashed across the open space and down to the water’s edge to claim the pelts, and then frowned. Off to his right he saw tan shapes. These weren’t deer, however; they were unmistakably tents.
Military? Out here? What?
He headed for the encampment, making no attempt to remain unseen. He didn’t know why the Stormcloaks would have a contingent out here in the middle of nowhere, but he was sure they wouldn’t be bothered if he simply asked what was going on.
He’d nearly reached the first tents when he saw it – the distinctive flash of red and brown that constituted an Imperial Legion uniform. He instantly dropped into a crouch, taking cover in the grasses, while his heart raced in confusion.
Legion! What are they doing here? The war’s been over for years now – most of my life! Are they preparing an attack? This cannot stand!
His mind raced, as well. What would his parents do? Nothing, probably; they tended to keep away from anything political, as far as he knew. What would his uncles do?
They would take out these bastards. I’ll have to let them know. But this encampment is between me and them and there’s no way I can sneak past it to get my uncles. I have to deal with this myself. Gods help me but I’m going to have to kill these men.
Chip took aim on the soldier whose red uniform was easiest to spot. As he rose up to fire, the soldier looked at him and grimaced.
“Move along!” the Imperial voice shouted, just before Chip’s arrow slammed into his shoulder. The soldier staggered backward and grabbed at the arrow shaft, shouting “Mercy!”
Then things got busy.
An archer with a face like a thundercloud stepped out from behind the largest of the tents and fired at Chip, missing by inches. Chip fired back and struck the man; but he seemed completely unfazed by the pain and returned fire. The arrow struck Chip in the thigh just as the soldier before him switched to a sword and dagger and rushed him.
“You call yourself a warrior?” another soldier cried from the center of the camp. He, and a third man in officer’s uniform, rushed out to join the original archer; and just like that Chip found himself in pain, bleeding, and worst of all, surrounded. The archer sliced at him with his sword and, while his blade didn’t completely penetrate Chip’s armor, it did hurt dreadfully. Chip started to panic, started to reach for his blades.
Then he turned.
Without any warning, the blinding flash of pain raced through him and he transformed into a beast, even while the soldiers continued hammering at him. The first man Chip had shot had joined his brothers, but he was injured; the beast took one massive swipe at him and he flew across the ground to land in a heap, dead. A second soldier met a similar fate, even as the officer and the second archer sliced the wolf over and over. His heart was pounding; he was badly injured now and needed to feed before he died. That he knew without a shadow of a doubt.
He ran a few paces away from the camp, drawing the two remaining soldiers along with him. Then he pivoted; and before they could catch up to him his much longer limbs took him back to the two corpses, where he fed on the first, feeling his strength return slightly. The two soldiers caught him before he was quite finished, and continued hammering at him with their blades; but it had been just enough for the wolf. He rose up and slashed wildly, first at one of the men and then the other, dropping both of them to the ground.
There was at least one more archer somewhere. He could hear the arrows whizzing through the air. At least one caught in his fur. But before he could deal with the archer he needed to regain his strength; so he devoured the remaining corpses – or as much of them as he could gobble down quickly – and then turned his attention to the rest of the encampment.
There were three more men; two in the camp and one at a lookout station on a ledge outcropping above it. As he had done with the previous group of soldiers he swatted them again and again, claws extended. They only lasted a few moments.
Stronger.
The final man screamed and flailed as he shot badly aimed arrows at him. He lasted no longer than any of the others had. The wolf devoured him. Then he made his way back through the camp, checking for any bodies and consuming those he hadn’t, before. There were two badly injured men cowering in one of the tents; he slaughtered and ate them as well.
Thank you, my hunter. Your gift of these souls is pleasing to me.
That part of the beast that was Chip recognized that Hircine had spoken to him yet again. He raised his sharply-clawed hands to the skies and howled in joy. He was stronger with every kill. He was giving Hircine something that he desired.
He was a hunter.
