As brutal as winters were in Skyrim, the Reach area seemed to have it the worst. Whether it was for mountains, the open north, or just general absence of trees and any viable shelters, the winds were merciless here.

The man did his best to shield the small bonfire with his body. He was used to harsh conditions, and was thankful that he was at least dry, but it annoyed him to no end that he had to shift his position every few moments to protect his only source of light and heat from the powerful breaths of Kyne. He wouldn’t even bother to maintain it if it wasn’t for the venison chop that was currently roasting over it. He chuckled to himself as he recalled what he did for it, and couldn’t decide if stealing from a sabre cat was a stroke of genius or insanity.

He briefly rummaged through his bag, before producing a small, sealed jar. When he opened it, a dry, ashy smell filled the air for a brief moment before being swept away. He took a pinch of greyish, powdery substance from it, and carefully spread it over the meat. Living in a wilderness for weeks at a time didn’t mean he would forsake the small, simple luxury that was ash salts. He resealed the jar and stashed it away, before cutting off a small piece of meat and sampling it. Perfect. For a moment, he actually started to feel some semblance of comfort.

The blast of the snow that ensued washed it away almost immediately. It came without warning, without the shift in temperature. Just a violent blizzard that left him and all he had with him encrusted in snow in a heartbeat. Not wasting a moment, he grabbed his bag and the sword and rushed away to find better cover. He did enjoy snow, but not when it sneaked on him and jumped him like a whole pack of frost wolves. And just when he was just about to finally get some rest. While flying aimlessly, he made a mental note of what to do when he got back to civilization: drink and entire pint of mead and piss it all out on the closest shrine of Kynareth.

As luck would have it, there were no shelters nearby. But he knew he had to find one: as hardy as he was, a pneumonia wouldn’t do him good. The off-task part of his brain tried to remember the last time he caught as much as cold. Despite living in Skyrim for his entire life, he was never really hurt much by her cold climate. It never really occurred to him that he got sick a lot less than the other childr-

World upside down. Rolling. Pain. Snowflakes still beating on him like tiny daggers. Crunching of the loose gravel. Abrupt blow on a hard surface. More pain. Then stillness.

He forced himself to get up. He was hurting all over, but nothing seemed to be broken. As he brushed the snow out of his hair, he inspected his surroundings; the uneven walls of dark stone covered with pockets of moss and mushrooms, darker but dryer from where he was moments ago. And what just happened aligned itself in his mind: while running, he must’ve slipped or tripped on something in the dark and tumbled down the side of the hill; apparently right into a cave.

If he wasn’t taught better by the years of experience, he would have laughed out loud. Not even his bag and sword were lost in the wild tumble downhill. Seems he finally caught a lucky break. A nice, mostly dry place to rest for the night, the only price being a handful of bruises. He leaned on a nearby rock and took a deep breath.

Wrong. The air wasn’t proper. It didn’t smell musty or dry, like a cave was supposed to. Instead, it stank. It stank or rot and decay, as well as the unmistakable metallic odour of recently spilled blood.

He got on his feet, alarmed. This couldn’t be happening. He spent the last five days tracking, asking the locals and wanderers alike, and getting only vague clues that mostly pointed to this area. None of them even mentioned that there was a cave. And now, out of all possible places, he’d just fallen headfirst into it.

It would seem like he wouldn’t get much rest tonight.

Slowly, trying to make as little sound as possible, he took his bag and placed it near the boulder from which he just got up. Next, he unfastened his cloak, heavy with moisture, and laid it over the rock. The armour beneath it was leather, reinforced with thin plates of a dark, matt metal. For a few moments, he fiddled with the buckle on his sword belt, before lowering it to his hip. It was more convenient to transport it on his back, but he felt that he would be seeing some action pretty soon, and having it on his hip would be more convenient for that.

Carefully, he took a few steps in. Being forced to rely only on his sight alone infuriated him to no end, but that was the kind of quarry he dealt with now; light would only scare it away. Even drawing out his sword right away would be a bad idea. It would smell the protective oils on it, and it would then be one step ahead.

Deeper in. The stench got stronger. His boot stepped onto something that started giving away, and he stepped back. Focusing on what it was, he noticed he stood at the edge of a sizeable pile of bones, mostly animal, but some human as well. A lot of them were pure white, stripped of anything edible and bleached by time. But one smaller pile was noticeably fresh, still red with blood. He briefly squatted to inspect it: undoubtedly human and Nordic, its sex impossible to determine in darkness because of how small and young the owner was. It looked like he would only be bringing one child back home.

Suddenly, he felt something. It wasn’t any physical sensation like cold, or even emotion such as fear. It was something beyond understanding and logic. The hair at the back of his neck stood up and he felt sudden weight on his shoulders; an unequivocal sign that he was being watched.

He slowly got up, his eyes darting from hither to yonder, scanning what little of the cave walls he could tell apart from total darkness. It was there. But where?

“He-ere, doggy doggy,” he called out in a voice barely louder than a whisper. He smacked his lips several times. “Come ‘ere, come ‘ere. That’s a good boy. Come out and play, you mangy son of a Reachmen whore.”

The cave echoed with a low growl.

He allowed himself a smile. No matter how many times he tried it, it always worked. He'd have to record that one some day. Wisdom for the future gene-

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The slightest hint of a whir behind him. He whipped around just in time to see a horrible gnarled shape lunging at him, claws outstretched. At the last possible moment, he dropped to the bonestrewn floor, and the thing flew over him and rammed itself head-first into a stone wall.

He jumped to his feet, and drew his sword: the silver of the blade seemed to emanate light of its own. And in the faint glow, he finally managed to get a good look at his foe.

Not even a blind man would mistake it for a human. It was taller than him, even when slouched over. Its skin, waxy and hairless, looked more like tanned leather and stretched over horribly emaciated limbs and thorax on which every rib was visible. The deceptively weak looking arms led to equally skinny fingers, each ending with a curved claw that could be mistaken for that of a bear in shape and size. The stench emanating from it was like a burning carcass.

The face was the peak of the horror: the mouth was lipless, revealing two rows of long, uneven, pointy teeth, in a snarl that would make a dremora weep in horror. The nose was crooked. The eyes, merely two sickly green orbs, observed him with a mix of hatred and hunger.

He lunged forward, swinging his sword in wide arc. But the beast was faster, and got out of the way. He had just enough time to sidestep and narrowly avoid the swing of claws that would pull his guts out even through armour. Before the beast could retract its arm, he planted his feet firmly into the ground, grasped his sword both hands, raised it above his head, and brought it down in a swift chop.

The sound that filled the cave was exactly what Hervird described; a piercing roar. The blade struck the monster across the shoulder, drawing a long, but shallow gash. He jumped back just in time to avoid a fierce retaliation. He briefly registered the sickly brown blood of the monster sizzling on the silver of his blade before it was time for action again.

The beast lunged again, and he prepared to meet it. A moment before the blow, it abruptly stopped, and his sword cut only through air. Before he could bring it back, the claws raked across his abdomen, in a strike that sent him flying to the opposite wall.

The cuts on his belly burned like molten lead. The world became even dimmer than it was. Somehow, he didn’t drop his sword. He knew he had to end this soon, but he had no strength to stand up. And it was already coming for him, jaw opened incredibly wide, aiming for his neck. In the last moment, he brought his hand up, and the beast bit into his bracer. Almost instantly, it let go, screaming in pain, as its mouth and tongue steamed.

With a roar, he brought his sword about. He felt the sharp metal cut through the tough hide, flesh, and finally, bone. The shriek that came from the creature’s mouth was ear-shattering. And he couldn’t really blame it: it was the pain most creatures experienced only once in a lifetime. The pain of having limb hewn from body.

The severed hand cringed on the ground as the creature flailed about wildly, trying in vain to close the horrible wound in its wrist with its remaining fist.

He got up on his feet. It was time to bring this to an end.

As the beast turned away from him in its madness, he had the moment he needed to plan and plant his next strike. The silvery blade swished, and the monster fell to the floor, in too much pain to even cry out. The tendons in its legs were slashed with the precision of a surgeon.

He leaned on the wall. He only now registered that the sweat was pouring into his eyes, and he wiped it off with his free hand. He noticed the scratches and indentations on his bracer from where the creature tried to bite him. There were only a few of them, but they were rather deep, exposing the silver beneath the layer of black tarnish. He made the mental note to have them repaired before his next hunt.

A pained moan snapped him back to reality. The monster was trying to crawl away weakly, blood oozing from its stump arm. A sharp blow with a boot to the back brought an end to that. As it strained pathetically under his heel, his thoughts wandered away to the bloody pile of bones. He thought of their owner, stripped of his or her life so early, just so that this creature could satisfy its greed. He thought of the parents, who probably still hoped that their precious child was somehow alive and well. For a few moments, he wanted nothing more than to roll the beast over, then shove the sword’s pommel into its eyes and watch them boil.

No. He brought down the sword in one motion, piercing the monster’s head right where the skull connected to the spine. It immediately stopped twitching.

“It’s leagues better than what you deserved,” he spoke to the corpse.

He yanked the blade free, wiped it on the corpse’s back, and returned it to its scabbard. He then took a deep breath, only to be reminded that he was still injured, and now that the adrenaline was fading, he had pain to deal with. He strapped off his cuirass to inspect the wounds: they weren’t deep, but the flesh was red and irritated. Nothing a quality healing potion couldn’t fix.

Rummaging through his pouch only awarded him with a bloody finger and smell of spilled potions. Maybe his fall wasn’t so lucky after all. Sighing, he pulled out his knife, and stuck out his left hand, focusing. Nothing. He tried snapping his fingers a few times. Nothing again. He held his breath, focused harder, and snapped his fingers again. Finally, a small flame burst forth from his palm. Not wasting any time, he held his knife to it. Few moments later, the flame went out. Not really enough, but it would have to do. He took a deep breath, and pressed the blade on his wound.

A drawn-out whistle escaped his lips. He was taught to never show pain, but he never quite mastered the skill. Fortunately, he found the way around it, and his teacher didn’t argue. He wiped the soot off the knife’s blade before sheathing it back. Then, more carefully this time, he reached into the pouch, and pulled out a piece of a broken potion vial. There was still some dense liquid in the bend, and he observed it for a moment before running his finger over it to get what he could. He rubbed it into his wounds, and immediately felt relief. It wouldn’t do much to heal him, but it would at least ease the pain.

Strapping his armour back on, he now began a more important task: the ground of the cave was hard, but he still managed to dig a small hole in it. He then collected the bloody bones and carefully piled them up inside, before covering them with dirt. It took away some time, but he felt that leaving without doing it would be inappropriate. Finally, he stood up, and muttered a prayer to the Hoarfather, asking him to speak for this child before Shor’s court.

Finally, he turned to the darkness of the cave. It was time to complete the final task.

“Come out, child,” he called. “Come out. I won’t hurt you. You’re going home.”

Silence.

“Wh-who are you?” asked the weak, frightened voice from the darkness.

“I have come here to rescue you. Hervird sent me.”

“Uncle Hervird?” The voice was shivery. “Is… is it dead?” it finally asked.

“It is. You don’t have to be afraid any more. It’s all going to be fine now.” Even as he spoke, his eyes fell to the mound near his feet, and he became aware of the futility of his words.

“Please come here, mister. I’m tied up.”

Without a word, he pulled out his knife and took a few careful steps into the dark, following the sound of the child’s breathing. There it was: just around the rock.

“I’m here now: don’t be afraid.”

He took one last step, and his eyes fell on the small body wrapped in brilliant green fabric, nearly dead from starvation. But moments later, he saw the rest of the scene, and he couldn’t help but to laugh out loud.