In a dream, a painted dog looked about himself and found that he was not alone. There were other hounds, stalking from the shadowy corners of the arena, converging at the center. First came the largest dog, the one with bristles in his coat, and a broken collar around his neck. He glanced once at the painted dog when he passed, apparently disinterested. Then, the two that seemed almost too lean, too skinny to be canines. The first smelled sickly-sweet, and his eyes were dark and angry. The other smelled like sea-salt, and he carried a jovial smile that was unnervingly sharp. Last came the dark hound, the one who had no scent and made no noise. He did not look upon the painted dog with malice as he passed, but his fangs were long and curved, and his eyes glowed unnaturally, like coals from a fire.
The painted dog climbed to his feet. He had thought he was dying, a bite-wound in his neck....but that was just a dream, a memory of a dream, a fantasy that dissipated as he rose from the dirt. He moved to join the other dogs at the center of the arena, where they had all gathered to sit on their haunches and watch the strange dark thing that was pulsating there in the dust. The painted dog had never seen anything like it, though he had often dreamed of its like. It was an amorphous being, an entity of pure shadow, twisting and writhing along the ground. It was singing a quiet song, an unpleasant, over-powering hum that wormed its way into the painted dog's ears and made him wince.
"Do we know what it is?" He asked the other dogs.
The one that smelled like death and sugar answered.
"No," he said, in a distant voice.
"But we know it bleeds." And as if on cue, the dark thing began to writhe faster, and to grow.
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Paints woke from a fitful sleep, still clutching at half-remembered dreams. The rocky cave interior had made a poor bed, despite his best attempts to pad out the surroundings. His back clicked and cracked when he stood and stretched, grimacing as his muscles stirred into painful action. To his side, Rose was already standing; she pressed her muzzle into his chest with an impatient whinny. "Aye," Paints answered, yawning as he stroked her neck. "Another morning, another journey. Let's get to it, before one of us drops back into sleep."
Said journey was surprisingly uneventful, considering the events that had unfolded the previous day. The expedition was quiet, almost uncomfortably so. The legionaries were spooked, the deaths of their comrades still fresh on their minds. The other volunteers looked tired, and more than a little bruised. Conversation was scarce; Paints was almost glad when Sevari pulled close and revealed some grim news. Skins in the snow, Paints thought as his hand strayed instinctively to the pommel of his scimitar. With every detail, the story grows darker, more full of dread.
"I expect things will get worse before they get better. Anyone else feeling glad they decided to sign up on this expedition yet?"
"Aye." Paints answered the sea-cat with a ready smile. "It's obvious something about all of this is...wrong. We should take it as an honor, that we are here to right it."
==========
Winterhold was a welcome sight, despite its meager appearance. Besides the College of Winterhold looming out over the sea, there really wasn't much to the town. Supposedly it had once been a major port, but looking at it now, Paints wasn't exactly convinced. He had only been to Skyrim once before this expedition, when he had passed through Falkreath with the Merry Cast while they made their way to High Rock, but even the pitiable logging towns he'd been confronted with then had dwarfed this tiny excuse for a city.
Paints diverged from the main party as they entered, taking a quick moment to approach the cliff side and gaze out at the Sea of Ghosts. The view was grand, a wide panorama of blue ocean and bluer skies, and the constant whiteness of fresh ice layered between. His mind was elsewhere, however, at a different seashore in Elswyer, where the sands met the waters in a glade of palm trees and sparkling calcite. Now I have seen two ends of this world, he realized, and so many leagues between them. What have I gained for my troubles? He breathed in deep, tasted salt and ice and clean air...and imagined he could taste oranges too, a sweet scent carried by some wayward southern breeze.
The tavern's stables were blessedly warm compared to the chill air outside. Paints was the last to arrive; the rest of the party had already stored their mounts and gone to find drink. Theirs was evidently the largest group to pass through Winterhold in some time, as the modest stable hardly had room for every steed. A single stableboy was hard at work dressing the steeds down, a task that was apparently his alone. Paints considered himself fortunate when he found an unoccupied stall...unoccupied by any beast, at least. The stable's last remaining open stall was currently in use by one very drunk Nord, cursing up a storm as he thrashed in the hay and tried to open his fourth bottle of mead. Paints watched him struggle for a moment before he made his presence known. "I do hope you're paying for lodging and feed, friend."
The Nord stopped his machinations and fixed the Argonian with a sour eye. "'Nother one of that party from the south, eh?" He turned his head to the side and spat a thick glob of phlegm into the straw. "S'pose yer wanting a place to stable yer horse."
"Yes, I suppose I am." Still, the Nord didn't budge. Paints let his smile turn slowly into a frown, resisting the urge to move his hand to his hilt. Up here in these frozen wastes, they probably didn't take kindly to strangers...especially not strangers wearing scales.
"Oh, come off it, Borvar." That voice belonged to the young Nord stable-boy, who approached with an exasperated sigh and leaned over the stall's partition. "The man's part of something big and official, let him have his berth." Borvar grumbled bitterly to himself, but he obliged. The drunkard struggled to his feet and leaned against the far way, allowing Paints enough room to guide Rose into the stall. "I'm sorry about him, m'lord," the stableboy continued, not managing to make eye contact, "He doesn't usually get into his mead so early..."
"Not a problem, lad." Paints assured him with a smile. "One of the greatest men I ever knew had difficultly staying out of his cups. I suppose-"
"I ain't a damned drunk!" Borvar interrupted suddenly, lurching forward slightly before losing his balance and slumping back against the wall.
"Of course not. You're only here because the horses are such good company, yes?"
"Oh, fuck off," The man growled. "Just need sleep...hard to sleep anymore, what with all that's going on. Mead helps, aye...."
Paints cocked a brow. "What do you mean? What's been going on around here?" His question was casual as he started to nonchalantly remove Rose's tack, but his mind was elsewhere, in a dark cave full of unfeeling abominations.
"What hasn't been going on around here?" Borvar answered, returning his attentions to the cork of his mead bottle. "Children in blizzards, riots in the street...men afraid of their own dreams..." Finally the cork surrendered with a loud pop. The drunken man took a long, deep swig before continuing. "I used to be a Stormcloak, you know. I ain't ashamed to admit it, plenty of us were. We were fighting for...for what was right. This was our place...still is our place." He took another swig and eyed Paints up and down. "Might just be a frozen pile of shit-stained rocks up here, but it's ours. And I don't care how many Imperial bastards, how many foreign beasts-"
"Borvar!" The stableboy admonished the older man with a stern tone. Paints got the impression that these sort of drunken rantings weren't particularly uncommon. "Again, I'm sorry m'lord." The boy was rushing to apologize. "Here, let me help you with that." He clambered over the stall's partition and began to work on Rose's other side.
"It's quite alright," Paints answered with a half-smile, "I've heard all of that and worse before." He turned back to Borvar. "I'm assuming you were meandering towards a point, yes?"
"Aye, I've got your gods-damned point," the man grumbled grudgingly. He scratched at his crotch, glancing about as if trying to remember what he'd been trying to say. It was only after he lost his balance once again and fell back onto his ass in the hay that he seemed to be jolted back into awareness. "Right, right. I was a Stormcloak, aye. Stationed down in the Rift, down where there's more trees than sky, and all their leaves so gold and...and orange." He paused, took another drink. "Anyway, there was this time we were trailing some Imperial scouts through the woods. Thought they were making for the southern pass around the Throat, so we followed them into the foothills. We set up camp that night about a mile away from this big, dark tower. It was right on the crest of this wide ridge, but it wasn't Imperial, or Nordic. Looked old, all crumbling to pieces. We figured it was abandoned. Only, that night, we heard...things. Noises from that direction. Screams, we thought, and the baying of beasts." The man's eyes were far away now. "And we could see lights in that tower. Queer, flickering lights of unnatural colors...Our chief command told us to ignore it, try to sleep. But I don't think any of us did. All of us grown-men and women, and yet we huddled around the fire like children. Who could blame us?"
He drained his bottle and threw it into one of the stall's corner. "Never did find out what was going on there. In the morning, it looked just like it had the evening before. Just a rotting old tower. Still, we didn't waste any time. We packed up faster than we ever had before, and we marched right out of there before the sun was over the mountains. Not a one of us relaxed until that damned place finally dropped out of sight." With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall, rested his head. His eye was level with a crack in the wood there; he gazed out at the rest of the town, his voice still distant. "That feeling I got there, in the shadow of that dark tower...that feeling of dread, like a shadow is crawling up yer back...that's the feeling I'm gettin' now, in this town. Only now I can't just up and march away from it."
Paints let the air between them settle for a silent moment. He and the stableboy had finished their work during Borvar's story, but he figured he'd hang around for a little while longer. There was obviously more going on here than he could have guessed. "I know that feeling as well," he finally said. "Some would call it an intuition that there is evil in the air. Well, I have fought evil before, and I have bested it." His smile was brazen, shining brightly in spite of all their dark talk. "And now, I'm here to help you. You have nothing to fear."
Borvar snorted. "Right. Like I'm going to entrust my life to a big lizard dressed all in colorful silks. I'd rather rely on the mead."
The stable-boy was at least slightly less dismissive. "Have you really fought evil before?" He asked over the top of Rose's back, trying to smother a nervous smile. Paints could see the shine in the boy's eyes, and it made him smile as well. He's a lover of stories, as all young boys should be.
"Of course," he boasted in reply. "I am, after all, a Knight."
"He ain't no knight!" Borvar interjected with a spray of spittle. "Just look at him! Fucking ridiculous...his horse is about the only thing knightly about 'im, and he probably stole her off of some prissy highborn."
That finally killed Paints' smile. "I did not steal her! Do you take me for a thief?" He hissed his words through gritted teeth before he recovered. "Although..." his tone was softer now as he brought his head back around to the stabl-boy. "...I did not, technically, pay for her in gold. In fact, there's quite a story behind this horse, one rife with danger...and magic. Perhaps you'd like to hear it?"
Borvar scoffed from his position on the floor, but the boy was already nodding. Is there anything more satisfying than an eager audience? Still, he made a show of it, sighing as he began to dress down Rose's coat. "Very well...let me see if I can remember all of the details..."
He paused, just long enough to build a bit of anticipation, before he started. "Before I had this steed, I rode a rickety old nag that would offer me more bites and bucks than miles in a day. Terrible beast, that one, but what could I do? I was only a poorly knight, committed to my quest. I had little time to seek fortune, and even littler incentive. So I dealt with that flea-ridden steed as best I could...until one day, I came across a village that needed my help." He gestured vaguely to the south. "This was down in Cyrodill, far away, on what the Imperials call the Gold Road. Unlike here, the sun is warm there, and the land was bursting with life. Foxes, with coats of brilliant red, and birds of every variety to fill the brush with song, and more deer than one could count...and even, the rarest beast of all...a unicorn."
Paints was delighted to see the boy's eyes widen in surprise. Borvar was less impressed. "A unicorn? Do you take us for fools?"
"Aye, I know it's hard to believe. I could hardly believe it myself. And yet there it was, as plain as could be: a unicorn, with hair of golden-white, and hooves made of glimmering diamond. And upon its head, a horn that sparkled like crystal. It was living in the forest near this village, just as wild and beautiful as you'd expect. Of course, the townspeople loved it. At first, they considered it a good omen, a blessing from the gods. They would smile and pray when they caught glimpse of it in the forest, and grow flowers around their homes in the hopes that the beast would come near and bring them good fortune."
The boy's face scrunched in surprise. "Flowers?"
"Aye, of course. Don't you know that flowers are a unicorn's favorite food?" His tone was light and teasing. "The legends say they can only eat things that are just as beautiful as themselves. Anyway, all was well and good...until one day, a different sort of beast arrived in those woods. A troll, it was, larger and meaner than any I'd ever seen before, or ever seen since. And it wanted that unicorn dead. I still do not know why. Perhaps it was simply hungry, and thought the flesh of such a rare and stunning beast looked particularily appetizing. Perhaps it could comprehend how ugly it was, and was jealous of the unicorn's natural grace. Either way, it wanted the unicorn dead, and for weeks it hunted the beast through the forest, giving little thought to either rest or food. The unicorn was fast enough to get away, but the villagers could see that it was tiring, more and more each day. And after it passed by the village, the troll would come just after, angry and roaring. It would wreak destruction wherever it passed, killing livestock and overturning fences. When I arrived in town, the villagers turned to me for help."
He shrugged, as if he was presented with such momentous requests on a frequent basis. "What could I do but accept the challenge? I am a knight, sworn to protect the innocent and the weak. I knew the troll must die. So I decided to set a trap. I went to each home in the village, and asked for roses from their gardens. Then, into the forest to find the wild roses that grew there, until I had a hundred or more of those vibrant bulbs. I took them to a quiet glade deep within the forest, and then I set about planting them. It took many hours, but eventually I had a garden of roses all my own, a vast field of red that filled the breeze with a soft, sweet scent. I took to the underbrush nearby, and waited. It did not take long. First came the unicorn, drawn into my garden to feast upon the roses. Then, right after it, the troll. It came crashing through the forest, tearing up trees and roaring so loud that the earth shook beneath my feet. I leapt out from my hiding spot and drew my sword..."
He paused again, relishing the way the stable-boy's mouth hung wide open. "...and I set about killing the wretched creature. It was larger than I had thought, taller than me by four, and bulkier than well-fed bear. Surprsingly quick, too. It saw me as I jumped into the glade. I think my colors enraged it, because it roared and charged at me instantly, completely forgetting about its previous prey. I stood my ground, and raised my blade..."
He went on to describe the fight in great detail, every hit, every miss, every fleck of black monstrous blood. He punctuated each sentence with a motion of his hands, mimicking the thrusts of his sword, or the great swinging claws of the troll. The stable-boy was completely enraptured, hanging on his every word, his eyes tracing every movement as if he was watching the real thing. Even Borvar was watching with something that looked a bit like grudging interest. Finally, he got to the end. "...But as the great brute grabbed me, and brought me to its maw, I plunged my sword into its third eye! There was a great spout of blood while the creature convulsed, wailing. Finally it released its grip on me, fell to the ground, dead. I took a moment to look about, but the unicorn was gone, vanished back into the forest. I would get no thanks from it, it would seem. Slightly disappointed, I trudged back to the village. There, I was cheered, of course. The villagers tried to offer me a reward, but I told them time and time again that I could not accept. I was only doing my duty, after all. Any knight would have done the same. So I restocked my rations, saddled my cursed old horse, and set out again."
Finished with the dress-down, Paints made as if he was finished with his story as well. He turned to place the wire brush away, acting as if he couldn't see the boy's obvious, nervous confusion. Wait for it...Finally the boy spoke up. "But, I thought this was a story about this horse. She wasn't even there!"
Paints turned back around, nodding as he smiled. "Aye, I suppose you're right. She was not there. Only, the strangest thing happened as I was leaving that day. When I passed back through that forest, I was shocked to see a horse emerge from between the trees. She was a beauty, a gorgeous red roan. She did not carry a saddle, or any signs of ownership, and yet she approached me easily enough and nuzzled against my chest. And there, in her mouth, was a single red rose."
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A short while later, Paints finished his conversation with the stable-boy upon the steps of the Frozen Hearth. "...and if anything else happens, you'll come find me, aye?" The boy nodded eagerly. The Argonian knew he had him in his pocket; all children hunger for stories, and up in this cold corner of the world, this boy must have been starving. He'd already divulged quite a bit about the recent riot at the college gate, and about the town's missing children, but he didn't seem to know much more beyond that. Still, it was better than nothing, and Paints trusted that the boy would come running to his side if anything serious started brewing in Winterhold while he was staying here. With a smile, he sent the boy off, back to the stables.
As he gazed at the boy's retreating back, he couldn't help but think back to the reality of the day he obtained his steed. When the old horse breeder had led the courser out of the barn, he'd felt his heart drop. "Please," he'd said, almost pleading, "Please, this is too much."
"Nonsense." The breeder had returned, his voice unyielding. "Without you, those goblins would have had the run of us. Now that they're slain, we can finally get back to work. You deserve some payment."
I don't, he'd wanted to say, but instead he said "But such a fine horse! Surely she's worth my weight in gold! Please, do not waste her on me!"
The old man had simply smiled and shaken his head. "It is no waste. You are a knight, as true and valiant as they say in the stories. Before you came, I'd thought us cursed, forsaken by the gods. What with the war, and then those goblins...I prayed every night, but there was no answer, only the threat of more spears through my stock. And then, when everything was darkest, you arrived, and showed me that there is still light in this world. I owe you for that, and so much more."
Paints had swallowed hard, tried one last defense. "It was my duty. I only did what I was sworn to do." The weight of the lie was uncomfortably rough on his tongue. Lies, lies, and more lies. I am no knight, I have sworn no vows. The goblins could have been slain by any capable man with a sword.
"A knight needs a steed," the old man had countered, still smiling. "After the gods have sent you to me, I would be loathe to send you away without a proper horse. It is not much, but it is all I can offer you." Paints had reached uncertainty for the reigns then, practically shaking. Must I be a liar and a thief? But the old man had gently pushed the lead into his claw, still smiling warmly. "Besides, this benefits me just as much as it does you. This one's a feisty beast, a tad unpredictable. She's always jumping her enclosure, getting into my wife's rose bushes..."
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With the recent influx of travelers, the Frozen Hearth was surprisingly crowded. Paints held the door open for a robed Breton as he scanned the room for a seat. Luckily for him, Juin was quick to approach and point out an empty table. Paints was glad; the memory had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and sight of a friendly face among all of these suspicious locals went far in banishing it. "A drink to fight the chill, my friend, on me." He signaled the server for two cups of ale as he took his seat. "...and, perhaps, to provide us with a respite from all the strangeness we've been enduring."
He glanced nonchalantly about the room. Most of the locals were very obviously perturbed by their presence, but in the din of the tavern amongst all the other legionnaires, he didn't think he'd have to worry about being overheard. He turned back to Juin, studied him for a second. Juin had proven himself to be more than capable as a fighter, and compared to some of the other volunteers he had always been friendly. Paints figured if he had information, then the elf deserved to know. "I just had a very enlightening conversation with a drunkard and a child," he began, pausing to thank and pay their server as she brought out two pewter cups of ale. "I'm assuming you can feel that tension in the air? So thick you could cut it with a blade, yes? Well, you have reason to feel it. Apparently this town has a problem with vanishing children. Something, or someone, is out there snatching them up. The townspeople blamed the mages in the college, unsurprisingly. Started a fight they couldn't win." He took a large gulp of ale. "And now we've marched ourselves right into the middle of it all." He didn't say the rest of what was on his mind, about his suspicious concerning the town's troubles and the strange fight they'd had in the cave the previous night. He was sure Juin was smart enough to put two and two together. Instead, he simply asked: "Do you believe in evil, my friend? I mean true, unrepentant evil?"
