Hunter Or The Hunted? Options

[The Wolf]

Hecerilar, the altmer hunter, sat on a bar stool. He was in a bar called 'Broken Sword', in western parts of Skyrim. It had been tough to get there, but he had finally made it. He was here to hunt the wolves.

Suddenly he realized, that he was surrounded by nords. As he sipped his mead, one of them spoke.

"What's this 'ere, a lonely elf in the land of frost? Feeling a bit... chilly, eh?" First the nord seemed offencive, but then, suddenly, he smiled warmly, and patted the altmer's back.

"Sorry about that." Quick exchange of glances between the nords. "You look like a good huntsman. Have you heard of the great Snow Wolf that lurks up the hills? We've seen sometimes it's tracks, which are huge, but we haven't found it nor seen it."

There was something strange going on here, Hecerilar knew, but he already could picture the beast's pelt as his helmet. It was far too great temptetion for him. He remained silent.

"Afraid, elf?" the nord mocked. "Don't go, elf." He whispered that, suddenly looking him with a strange look in his eyes. Was it pity, remorse? "Some others have done that, but have never returned."

Hecerilar just laughed.


*****

To Be Continued.....

[The Wolf]

He ran, until he tripped over a tree root. Then Hecerilar sobbed, and tried to get up. He couldn't. He was too exhausted, too cold, too terrified. The howls started to close. He started to crawl forward, too scared to just stay there.

Then the howling stopped. They were close enough to attack, and kill. No reason to give up their whereabouts.

He lay down and tried to be as small and as silent as he could. Maybe they wouldn't find him.

Not a chance. He could hear them smell the air, catching his scent. The snowy trees stood around him, silently witnessing.

The werewolf bit his arm. He screamed. Something surprisingly answered his scream. The werewolf letted his arm go, and raised it's head. Then it was decapitated by a nordic silver axe. The nord with axe and torch walked over me and the corpse. Too bad that the werewolf wasn't alone after the altmer. Hecerilar tried to get up, sobbing, and fell down again, exhausted and scared.

The horrible noises conjured memories from the past, memories he had thought he had buried long time ago. Memories he did not want to re-live. The nord screamed in agony. It reminded him of another scream, another time, time when he had been unable to help the screamer, just like now. His father. Hecerilar whimpered on the ground, possessed by his memories.

The altmer boy hided in the chest, while his mother, highborn, locked and barred the door. His father stood by the door with his claymore, the one that was too heavy to play with. He had once tried to lift it, but he hadn't been even able to get it of the table. They had known what risk they had took when they moved to the central parts of Skyrim. It was tough life for an altmer used to luxuries of cities. They had to hunt for their living, and the trader came by only once a month. They were the first colonists that had come to this area. Others were supposed to come in few weeks ago, but none had appeared. Instead, the beast that even right now scratched at the door, searching for an entrance, had come. Then the scratching stopped. They could hear it moving in the night. Suddenly it punched it's fist through the window, and tried to reach in. It was hairy, long-clawed and dirty, and suddenly detached from it's host, as the claymore came to cut it. We could hear it's whimper in the dark, outside the house. His father, his foolish, foolish and arrogant father had decided to go out and end it's life. His screams had lasted so long... Later, when morning dawned, they had went out. They had found his father, gutted like a fish, an expression of terror and pain on his face. They had fled from Skyrim, not wanting ever to return.

But now he was here again. Hecerilar went unconcious.

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Not so long as I had thought, but I think I'll update faster next time (or not, I had an inspiration this morning...).