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]

Trees flickered past Hecerilar as he sped through the forest, keeping his eye on the tracks. He stopped only few times, to catch his breath and to take a sip of water. It was late afternoon when he noticed a familiar hill. He stopped. If he remembered correct, the village was right behind that hill. He tried absent-mindedly improve his outlook, but then decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. He would buy new clothes from the village. He hurried to the top of the hill, and observed the village. It looked calm and peaceful. Yet there was something strange about it. He couldn't really put a name for it, but longer he watched the village, the more restless he came. He started noticing little things. No smoke came from chimneys. No one walked on the streets. No sounds.

Hecerilar took his bow and few arrows from his backpack and carefully stalked to the village. The snowy lane was filled with werewolf tracks. He putted away his bow. Werewolves are mere humans or other intelligent creatures during the day. There, in the center of the village, were some corpses. There lay the guards of the village, ruthlessly butchered. Their corpses were only partially intact, and it was hard to tell how many there had been. Around them were some corpses of the werewolves. He studied one of the guards corpse more closely. It had been propably killed last night. Then he noticed something strange. Tracks that were definitely not made by werewolves – at least not in wolf-form. They came from the northern side of the village, and seemed to visit all of the houses. There were more tracks coming out than going in. It was clear to Hecerilar that the people of the village, at least some of them, were held as prisoners. He dared not to imagine their fate. Hecerilar hurried forward, to the place he remembered to be shaman's house.

He opened the door, and started to search for a potion cure disease. He noticed a shelf full of potions across the room.

He stopped and stared it, horrified, and sat down to cry. He did not sob. Only tears leaked down his cheeks.

On the front of the shelf, on the floor, were three potions, shattered. The label was still readable. There were the potions he had been looking for, but now when he found them, they were useless.

Those bottles were purposefully destroyed. It was a message.