The steely grey sky stood unmoving over Riverwood, contrasting the majestically white ground covered with a deep layer of fresh snow. Even with no new one falling, it was damnably cold, and an occasional breath of wind would cut straight to the bone with thousand icy knives. It was then of little surprise that the entire town was still. After all, nobody wished to be outside in such a weather. People preferred to stay inside where some semblance of warmth could be found. Of course, some didn't have a say in the matter: a lone guard sat by the gates, shivering despite the dirty yellow gambeson. Hyglak was his name, and at the present moment, he couldn't decide which was worse: the cold or the boredom. A part of him wished to just fall asleep. It would solve both of his problems at the same time. Of course, if he fell asleep now, he would not wake again.

He turned to side for a moment, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of moving water in the White River. No use. The chilling cold froze it solid. He shook his head and turned back to the road. And almost leapt straight out of his skin when the black figure that wasn't there a minute earlier stood but a stone's toss away from him.

"Halt!" he commanded. Somehow managing to straighten himself up, he pointed his spear towards the spectre. It was a man, judging by the size. Nothing else about him could be determined, hidden too well by black cloak with a large hood.

"In the name of the Jarl, state your name and your business," demanded Hyglak.

"I am merely passing through," responded the man. His voice was a calm baritone. "Is that a problem in any way?"

Hyglak stood for a moment, blinking as if trying to remember something. "Go on in. But don't let me catch you causing trouble on my watch, you hear me?"

"Thank you for the warning, my good man," replied the man as he walked past him. "I shall make sure that you do not catch me."

Hyglak turned towards him, his mind trying to comprehend what he's just been told. Few moment's later, he decided it was not worth the effort. As he leaned back on the cold, grey wall, he tried to remember something. Something important, that he seemed to have forgotten. It was at the tip of his tongue, but his tongue seemed to be elsewhere now.

Soon enough, he gave up on that too. If it was important, he would remember it.

At the same time, the man paced steadily through the main street. It's been some years since he last visited Riverwood, and the place didn't seem much different: same wooden houses that looked newer than they really were, same worn road, same ancient trees, and - he suspected - same people. He stopped only when he reached the building that the recently painted sign named 'Sleeping Giant Inn': a moderately large establishment, built from fir logs darkened by years of sealing with fresh resin. It was half-buried in the snow, whose whiteness contrasted the dimness of the wood. Without much ado, he climbed up the steps and reached for the doors. Maybe he'd find some work inside.

---

“Describe it to me again.”

Hervird sighed as he put down a freshly shined tankard and a worn down rag. If the persistent young man with long raven hair opposite of him wasn’t his only other customer, he would have called the guards on him by now.

“Ain’t doin’ that, boy. I told you already: it’s just another werewolf attack. The elders will hire the Companions, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“And I told you already, old man,” he responded, the pause of emphasis before the last part catching with venom, “that if that was one of Hircine’s pups, the house would be redder than that mound of tow on your scalp.”

He paused, allowing himself a slight smirk as the barkeeper’s hand reached up to his raring ginger hair. He’d struck a nerve, he thought to himself.

“Now,” he continued, “you could spare yourself a lot of nerves, your entire town a lot of money, and me a lot of time, if you would just tell me what you saw that night.”

Defeated, Hervird sighed and picked up another tankard.

“Aight, fine. Might as well.” He stopped for a moment, trying to recall the memories.

“But this time,” the stranger added abruptly, “why not tell me what actually happened?”

Hervird’s jaw dropped. The young man opposite of him saw right though his story from the beginning. Why didn’t he just call him out right then and there? Why let him talk?

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He shuddered. The truth would not come easy. But the nervous beat of the stranger's gloved fingers on the counter let him know that it was his best bet to simply comply.

“It was three days ago. Sometime past midnight, I reckon,” he started, paying more attention to scrubbing out a dark spot on the tankard’s handle than to the youngster who now listened attentively. “I went behind the house to, ah, pour out some of the beer I had earlier that night. I was just about done when I heard noises from Frodnar’s house.”

He paused. He didn’t enjoy recounting the events of that night, still so fresh in his mind.

“Go on.”

The tone of the young man’s voice surprised him. No longer biting, it was now calm and focused, with a note of compassion in it. He lifted his gaze from the cup and his eyes met the ones of those that sat opposite of him: green like polished malachite, with the right one being somewhat lighter. A long, uneven scar stretched across the right side of his face, straight over his brow, and Hervird couldn’t help but wonder if the injury reduced the usefulness of the eye. It didn't seem so. He swallowed a glob of spit that unexpectedly formed in his mouth and continued.

“I heard steps and breathing. I heard Runa and Sven whimper. Poor little buggers were so scared they couldn’t even scream.” He paused again, unable to glue his eyes off the counter. A nod from a young stranger reassured him.

“I grabbed one of Alehir’s spears that he brought to Frodnar to sharpen, and sneaked towards the house. I got within maybe five, six paces from the house when they stopped whimpering. Scant later, the door exploded.”

“What do you mean, exploded?” asked the youth, frowning.

“Exactly what I say: exploded. Like someone struck it with a battering ram from the inside. Not broken, mind you: shattered and strewn about like glass.”

The young man’s frown deepened. “What happened then?”

“I don’t know, son,” admitted Hervird.

“What do you mean you don’t know? What happened then, what did you see?”

“Nothing,” said Hervird quietly. “Darkness and my age shielded it from my view. Whatever it was, it moved too fast for me to get any kind of look at it. Hid in the shadows too well. The only thing that I could make out was Runa’s green dress. Alehir got it for her when he last came back from Falinesti, and she seldom wore anything since. Whatever it was, it carried both her and her brother like sacks of feed.”

“And they didn’t struggle?”

“I didn’t notice it, but now that you mention it, I don’t think they did. Looking back, it’s strange that they didn’t scream.” He looked up, finally meeting his eye again, the fainting tremble in his cheeks, flicking of his tongue behind his lips and the narrowing of his eyes betraying the things running amok in his mind. “You… you don’t think it just killed them, do you?”

The young man seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. “Where did it go?” he finally asked.

“Oh, it came right at me, it did,” said Hervird. “Would’ve killed me dead if I didn’t stick out the spear in front of me.”

“You stuck the spear out?” asked the youth incredulously. “What if you hit the children?”

“Dammit boy, it was the spur of the moment!” Hervird flared up. “Some devil came rushing at me and I defended myself. At that moment, the last thing on my mind were the children.”

“Did you at least hit it?”

“Oh, I hit it alright. But I don’t think I really wounded it. No blood, you see. But I did hurt it.”

“How do you know that?”

“It screamed.” Hervrid’s eyes dropped. He has lived through the Civil War and the Second Great War, where he survived many battles and witnessed unspeakable horrors. And they all seemed insignificant before the sound that would haunt his dreams ‘till the day he died. “It was this… this piercing roar, like no man or animal could do.”

Hervird felt the mug slide from his numb fingers and clank on the worn wooden floor. Moments later, tears started streaming from his eyes.

“I reckon the scream woke everyone up,” he continued, “but by the time anyone got there, it was too late. No children, no monster: just an ageing drunkard laying on the ground in a puddle of his own making.”

“They asked me so many questions, son. And I had no answers. I reckon my mind ruled a werewolf as the only culprit, so that’s what I told them. But whatever that thing was, it wasn’t a werewolf.”

Silence dominated the room for good ten seconds.

“Frodnar there isn’t taking it very well,” Hervird added, pointing to the only other patron in the room: a man with a bush of uncombed hair and beard, slouched over the table next to several empty bottles, his face swollen and eyes red with tears.

“Can you do it, boy?” Hervird asked, a sudden spark of hope in his voice. “Can you track this thing down and save the littlers?”

“How much?”

“What was that, son?

“How much did your elders agree to pay to the Companions?”

Hervird had to stop and think. “Three hundred Haralds.”

“Tell them I’ll do it for half that amount.” The young man stood up from his chair and reached for his bag and sword. “I’ll be back within a week at most. If I’m not back by then, contact the Companions with utmost haste, and tell the guards that they must keep their torches lit constantly.” He dug a silver coin from his pocket and carefully placed it on the counter. “For the beer,” he added.

Hervird merely nodded. He only found his words when the man was already half the room away and reaching for the doorknob.

“Wait!” he cried. “You know what took them, don’t you? What is it?”

But he received no answer. The man has already exited and shut the door behind him, leaving the old bartender confused.

“It’s not a werewolf, alright,” spoke the man to nobody in particular, as he hung his sword over his shoulder. “And for now, it’s best you know only that.”

The cold air outside was refreshing after the heavy, sweet smell of the tavern. It started snowing again. A smile crept on the man’s face: it wouldn’t impede him in any considerable measure, and he very much enjoyed snow.

He set out.