The Sleeping Giant rarely got any sort of messages by courier, but occasionally, the Jarl would send a letter asking for help with a particular matter in an isolated corner of the hold. This letter wasn't from him. Handwriting spiraled and jagged all at once swirled along the crinkled parchment, and when he handed it over to the trio, Wyndrelis inhaled sharply.
This was the handwriting from the cellar, he thought, glancing rapidly between his two companions.
"Here, some old woman came by and dropped this off a few days ago," Orgnar grunted, "since you helped Camilla and Lucan Valerius, figured you might be interested." He tapped the letter for emphasis, Athenath picking it up and scanning the letter carefully. In short, it was a request for help with a specific pest problem; a wolf that had been stalking a remote corner of wilderness just outside of Riverwood, a beast that had a habit of intimidating travelers, specifically targetting a relative of the letter's author, who implored whomever got this request be careful and take every extra precaution.
Emeros sucked his inner cheek between his teeth as he thought it over. Really, the trio should be well on their way to Whiterun by now. Who knew how long that dragon was going to hold off on attacking the town of Riverwood? Would this make any difference? Wolves did as they pleased, but the plea in this letter detailed a lone wolf, something uncommon that set his nerves on edge. He took the paper into his hands and inquired, "did the woman who dropped this off say anything about the wolf itself? Any distinctive markings, any signs of illness?"
Orgnar rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring off into the hearth. "Now that you mention it, she said to be on the look out for a wolf with one grey ear."
"One grey ear?" Emeros repeated. Orgnar nodded.
"Yeah, that's what she said."
"Oddly specific," Emeros noted as he pocketed the letter. He looked between the other Mer as he turned on his heel and took an easy stride back to the trio's room and gathering his arrows and donning the armor they'd pulled off a bandit corpse. The leather was fairly thick, and the gauntlets had served him well. Plus, the fur lining kept him warm, though that was a tad unnecessary at the moment.
"So you're going after it?" Athenath asked, leaning in the doorway as Emeros examined his arrows.
"We," he corrected, "I think we should all see this thing up close."
"Why?" The confusion sprawled over the Altmers features as Wyndrelis inched by Athenath and into the room, tugging his own armor on over his clothes. Emeros looked between the Altmer, then the Dunmer, then the windows high above them, lining part of the upper wall.
"One grey ear is a very odd marking, and if it's a lone wolf, it could be injured or sick. It's best to take it down now, instead of risking it spreading something to the other wildlife. Don't worry," he nudged a small smile up his mouth, "as long as we keep our distance, we'll be alright."
Athenath shrugged, snatching their own armor up and buckling it on atop their clothes. He wasn't keen to encounter sick animals in the backwoods of Whiterun Hold, but he couldn't deny the burning embers of curiosity. An old woman dropping off a note about a strange animal sounded ideal for one more distraction from the gravity of Alvor's request. In a day or two they'd be standing before a Jarl, explaining what exactly happened in Helgen, hammering home just how much danger his people were in.
When they told Orgnar they were heading out after the old woman's wolf, he trudged to the porch and aimed a finger towards the mountains that supported the barrow, explaining that the woman - he'd not caught her name, didn't think to at the time - had told him she lived out that way, and the wolf stalked the river that direction, to follow its twists and curves carefully.
"Isn't that where we camped last night?" Athenath asked. He nodded.
"I believe so." The Bosmer's boots made dull thuds on the stairs as he lead the trio to the road, his posture steady, upright, chin high, gold jewelry catching the sun. He carried a few healing potions he'd bought off of Lucan, despite his desperate hopes he wouldn't need to use them or to cure ataxia or bone-break fever this journey. Awful conditions, he'd seen plenty of cases of them in his travels, and couldn't guarantee he'd have the ingredients on hand to brew up his own cures for them. This was Skyrim, this was unfamiliar territory, and who knew if he'd be able to pull potions together in a pinch while the trio were away from the town.
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The road subsided into dirt pathways. This time, they followed against the current of the river's rushing waters, the mountainous terrain bearing the weight of ancient trees, sunlight burning through the limbs and leaves. Wyndrelis tried to shake off his worries. He did not know what it meant to be a witch in the Skyrim wilderness. Could the cabin they'd discovered truly be occupied? Recalling the fresh alchemical ingredients, the empty and half-empty jars, the charged soul gems... Well, it wasn't abandoned, that was for sure. The only dilemma that wrestled his nerves was whether or not to tell his companions, but they weren't heading to the cabin directly, right? The trio would walk along the river, kill a wolf, and likely not see the cabin or its occupant. So what did it matter?
Wyndrelis bit his tongue. He would do his best to keep it bitten. They would likely not believe it, anyways.
Athenath followed dutifully behind the other two, Wyndrelis glancing back at them, the Altmer's hand lightly wrapped around the hilt of their sword. If anything approached from the front, they'd have plenty of time to ready himself for a fight. If anything came from the back, the Altmer would hear it well enough.
They strained their ears in the thickening forest, but only heard the birds and the insects scuttling about.
The trio's footsteps quieted as Emeros made a fleeting motion with his palm, hand lowered in the air as he crouched behind a trunk, readying his bow. "I see him." He murmured quickly. Athenath unsheathed their sword, Wyndrelis clasping his mace in one hand, casting oakflesh with the other. Emeros nocked an arrow and knelt, steadying his posture and his lungs both, the noise of the world filtered out until all he heard was his own beating heart.
The arrow whizzed by the grey-eared wolf, whose steps halted in the dirt. Eyes locked on Emeros, the beast hunched down and growled. A warning. Don't come any closer.
Another arrow whizzed by, this time missing his leg. The wolf snarled, Wyndrelis' magicka shrill in his palms as he cast Sparks, the lightning and wolf's jaws both snapping in the air as the beast hurled itself their way, charging the trio with incredible speed. Emeros fired another arrow, this time watching the head push deep into the muscles of the wolf's hind leg as it wove in and out of the trees, both as though it were fleeing and attacking all at the same time in a wild frenzied rage.
The wolf charged for the trio from behind one of the thick conifers. Athenath swung their sword, catching his hind legs as Wyndrelis used his mace, the metal smashing into its shoulder blades as it tried to flee. As the beast retreated, Emeros fired one last arrow into its head, watching it crumple down into the earth.
The trio caught their breaths, palpable anxiety in the air around them. "Did it bite you? Scratch you?" Emeros urgently interrogated.
"Didn't get close enough," Athenath answered.
"Didn't get to me, either," Wyndrelis put his mace away. Emeros breathed a long, relieved sigh.
"Good. I think we'll stocking up on disease cures in Whiterun, should we decide to hunt wolves again." He was only half-joking. The concern in his voice still traipsed the air as he approached the corpse, one grey ear flopped over its head. It was a magnificent specimen, with strong legs and a long, straight snout, and perfectly white teeth. Kneeling down, he ran a hand along its fur, the lack of a heartbeat a strange comfort. He examined its body, taking a special interest in the fur and the skin, finding ticks and fleas here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. All together, the pelt looked in good condition, and it would be a shame to waste it in the late summer heat...
He set his knapsack aside, dug out his hunting knife, and set to work. Tugging off his gauntlets, he instead retrieved a pair of leather gloves that pulled up to his elbow. Tucking his sleeves into them, he rolled the wolf onto its back, and pressed the blade down into the soft flesh where the hind leg met the body.
"Shit!" Athenath blurted out, lurching back as the first beads of blood ran down the fur. They covered their mouth with their hands, before removing them and nervously uttering, "Emeros, I think it's already dead."
"Of course, I'd never skin a live one."
"I mean- yeah, of course- that's not- it's not-"
Emeros halted his work, blinking a few times before turning his attentions fully to Athenath with an arched brow. "You've never skinned an animal, I take it?"
Their palms were coated in a thin sheet of cold sweat. "Um-"
"Ah," Emeros tutted quietly, waving a hand, "if you're going to be sick, please do so elsewhere. I plan to sell this pelt."
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"Okay," Athenath squeaked, abandoning his desperate attempt at composure. Wyndrelis looked between the pair, the bard already heading in the direction the trio came from, getting as far as they could from the situation. The raven-haired Mer looked to his friend, whose expert carving meant the task would take considerably less time than most skinners.
"Gods," Wyndrelis snorted, shaking his head, "perhaps a warning before you begin that, next time?"
Emeros thought this over, looking up into the distance, then shrugged his shoulders and set back to work, "Perhaps," he continued about his task as he added, "but the spoilage clock starts ticking the moment it's heart stops, and in this heat, I'd rather not handle that stench. Yourself?" He shifted his eyes to the Dunmer, who shook his head rapidly at the thought of the heat-struck stench of rotten meat. "Good, then it's settled. Though, perhaps you should check on Athenath."
Wyndrelis pressed a palm into the grass as he sat down beside the Altmer, the river giving plenty to focus on instead of the current process several feet away. Athenath sat facing the water, enough distance away from Emeros that they could no longer hear what was happening behind them. Wyndrelis rested an elbow on his knee, the thick material of his trousers keeping him too warm to be comfortable in the encroaching afternoon heat. "Doing well?"
"Gods," Athenath groaned, words muddled with a laugh. "That was embarrassing."
"No," Wyndrelis shook his head as he picked up a smooth stone, "it happens." After a long, unsteady pause, he spoke up again. "Do you know how to skip stones?"
The Altmer's face lit up slowly at first, then slid a grin up their mouth. "No, but I've always wanted to learn," he said as they pushed himself up. The Dunmer followed, minds both now turned on the search for the perfect stones to use. It would be a good distraction from everything the past few days had been, and he hadn't skipped stones in years. A gut-deep ache hit him as he remembered the last time he had. He shoved it aside and helped the Altmer look for the right kinds of rocks, explaining what was needed to make them bounce. He explained that, because this was not still water, all the rocks would do was slip away along the currents and into the abyss of rolling waves, but it would at least be practice for when they came upon a lake sometime, maybe even soon. Athenath still thought it was a good idea, and the two stood on the bank, watching the rocks wash away into the depths, waiting for their friend to finish up his work so they could all prepare for the journey to Whiterun.
Emeros left meat for the gathering carrion birds, black wings blotched along the branches and sky above him. Some circled. Some sat still. He tugged the fresh animal skin into a bundle using some twine, and while it wasn't the best hold, he could wrap it up so that it didn't bleed onto his other belongings until they got back to Riverwood.
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The road back to Riverwood had become easier to navigate. The bridge crept into view, and before the sun had fully crested the nearby mountains, they were back in town. Emeros brought the fresh pelt to Alvor, the two agreeing to split whatever money came from the leather strips that it would produce. The Bosmer offered to help him clean it and ready it for tanning, so they set to work while the other two returned to the inn.
Comfortably sipping from tankards and watching Sven make his worst attempts at conversation with Camilla, Athenath and Wyndrelis waited for their friend to return as Orgnar cooked over the hearth, giving a low rumble of a comment to the Nord bard, who went back to his lute in a hurried motion. Camilla muttered something to Delphine a few minutes later with a small smile before slipping out of the inn, a few more residents of the town finding their way through the door after a long day. Emeros found himself among them, excusing himself as he awkwardly toed between a couple of the mill workers, seating himself with the other two Mer.
"You think Whiterun's really the largest city in Skyrim?" Athenath asked. Emeros knit his brow.
"I don't recall if that's what Hadvar said. Did he describe it that way?"
"I can't remember," Wyndrelis shook his head, "but I do know from reading about it at some point that it is the agricultural center of Skyrim."
Emeros scoffed, "good thing this hold is neutral, then. If either side controlled Whiterun, the consequences could be..." he trailed off, then gave a disapproving shake of his head. The other two caught the meaning. The idea of Whiterun being under either side's control could be dire. What would happen to the exports of the hold? Would people on one side starve? Hungry soldiers meant tired soldiers meant less reliable forces. Defections, too, could come about. People's families starving under the thumb of one stubborn leader or another would spell disaster.
This war was none of their business, but the consequences could be. Either way, the trio would travel tomorrow to Whiterun proper, and carry the promise made to Alvor with them.
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Through the cool, afternoon breeze drifting over the leaves and branches along the path, singing could be heard.
The forested road carried them far from Riverwood, trees stretching upward in shimmering greens, the plants - once plentiful and sprawling - sparse in number as the trio drifted further and further from the logging community. The occasional deer, in a hurry to get to or away from something, made hurried darts across the road. The clouds rolled in light, soft shapes, white wisps cascading along the mountains that housed Bleak Falls Barrow, cupping the jagged shapes with care. Athenath thumped and shook his tambourine, familiarity of a song they'd learned long ago and rehearsed now for their application to the Bard's College. 'But Melvin of Skingrad, he hid in some crates...'
Athenath stopped in his tracks, tambourine that they'd been thumping and shaking half-forgotten as he grasped it in tight fingers, staring at the gigantic silhouette before the three. The arches and angles of the city on a high hill, situated in the middle of an expanse filled to the brim with plains, farms, and a few other scattered businesses, made itself known in its splendor. Whiterun proper was a grand, high-walled city, with its crowning jewel of Dragonsreach making the most intense impression from the distant road. Painted windmills lazily rotated in the breeze, colors muted from years in the sun. A small stream split the land, and the pathway wound further downwards towards the plains like it was laid along the back of a giant snake. The coppery grasses spiked up from the ground, tundra cotton plentiful along the road.
Athenath breathed a noise that sounded like it came from a place of awe, eyes wide open as if he were trying to drink in every single detail, imprint it in their mind. Emeros looked to his two companions, Wyndrelis' own face unreadable, but his eyes fixed on the structure that practically dwarfed what must be the entire city from this distance. The Bosmer stared out to it, the way the mountains rimmed the whole valley, lining it like uneven lip of a sculptors first clay bowl, sun golden, plains bronze.
As the sun lowered in the sky, the group headed past the bridge, past a meadery and its low, wooden fence, and into the surrounding farms of Whiterun. Windmills churned in the oncoming late noon, farmers tending to their crops, livestock wandering their respective farms. The path to the city inched ever closer to the walls lined with braziers puffing heavy, black smoke, the guards on patrol not taking their eyes off the strangers who found their way to the main gate.
The trio didn't have time to speak, as a guard sturdily marched to the three, speaking in a rough voice. "Halt! City's closed with dragons about, official business only." The other guard gave a grave nod, gripping the hilt of his blade tighter. Helmets obscured their faces, their armor glinting in the afternoon light.
Emeros stepped forward. "We bring news of Helgen about the dragon attacks, certainly the Jarl would want to know," he persuaded, watching cautiously as the guards gave one another skeptical looks, assessing the trio and their intents. The first guard sighed. This was well above his paygrade.
"Fine," he relented after a moment, "but we'll be keeping an eye on you three."
The guards pulled open the gargantuan, wooden gate, which creaked and groaned as the way to Whiterun parted, the path extending past the plains now and into the city flecked with noon light, shadows long, skies wide. The trio stepped through, the gate swinging shut behind them.
The streams of thick, orange clouds barreled over the city skies, blending into the blues and greens of a horizon that encircled the landscape for miles on end. As the gates closed and they left the miles of plains behind, the high grasses were replaced by cobblestone streets and winding waterways that lined the city walls, throughout and all around, providing an ever-present background radiation that seemed to clear the air of all uncomfortable silences. Patrols passed by, some carrying torches, prepared for the encroachment of night. Whiterun was bustling, for all the city could be at this hour. It wasn't a sprawling metropolis like any of the trio had been expecting, but it was still wide and spread over the hills, dozens of homes and businesses dotting the roads up the hills which must have lead to the castle they'd been eyeing from the distance as they walked.
"We'll pay whatever it takes," came the voice of a formidable man, part of his blond hair tied back from his sturdy face, "but we must have more swords for the Imperial soldiers."
The woman he spoke to leaned her shoulder against the post of what appeared to be the local blacksmith shop, her face ruddied from heat, smudges of soot here and there at her cheeks. "I just can't fill an order that size on my own. Why don't you swallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorlund Gray-Mane for help?"
"Ha!" The man chortled, "I'd sooner bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak. Besides, Gray-Mane would never make steel for the Legion."
"Have it your way. I'll take the job, but don't expect a miracle." She watched the man in Imperial armor turn and walk off towards a cluttering of stalls in what appeared to be the market square, before turning her eyes on the group with a scoff and a roll of her eyes. "Battle-Borns."
"What was that all about?" Emeros asked as he eyed the slowly-disappearing Nord in Imperial garb. The blacksmith exhaled, rubbing at her temples.
"Oh, just a member of one of Whiterun's 'oldest and greatest clans'. What, does he think I'm able to stop time and make all his swords? Am I supposed to be up all night with these orders? I..." she trailed off, resting her forehead in the crux of her thumb. Dragging her hand down her face, she returned to the forge, the travellers never quite leaving her line of sight. "I shouldn't bother you three with the details."
"I take it you're the local blacksmith," Emeros said, gaze flitting from her, to the forge, to her anvil and various tools, the woman snorting.
"Well, one of them. I work the forge all day, that's for sure. I've got to, if I hope to be as good as Eorlund Gray-Mane some day."
"Who's Eorlund?" Athenath asked quickly, Wyndrelis keeping a distance between himself and the heat of the forge before the trio.
"Head of the Gray-Mane family, Whiterun's other oldest and respected clan. Take my advice and keep out of both their ways. The Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns, ever since this new war broke out, are both trouble."
"Do they give you any trouble?" Athenath questioned further, the tint of a frown curling at his lip. The blacksmith shook her head, looking up at the strange elves with a rumple of her brow.
"Aside from placing impossibly-large orders? No. But interacting with either of them will earn the distrust of the other, so it's best to just leave 'em be." Pausing, she wiped her hands off on her apron and extended a firm, calloused hand. "Where are my manners? Gods. My name's Adrianne, you three are...?" The trio took turns introducing themselves, Wyndrelis doing so as quickly as possible, as though the friendly gesture scorched him. She didn't seem to mind. "Well, it's getting dark. You three might want to head to the Bannered Mare, talk to Hulda and Saadia. They'll give you a room for the night."
With that, she tidied up her forge for the evening, and the trio marched the long, cobbled street up to the inn, ready for a night's rest and new, overheard conversations from this towns residents.