VIGILANT

[malina]

The strangest hours, Katla had found, were always the in-between ones. The intermission hours, the waiting hours—whatever you wanted to call it, the sentiment remained. Katla herself called them the strangest hours. They had always filled her with some inexplicable sense of dread; the same feeling she'd had when her brother had not come home. The strangest hours always involved some sort of waiting. It did not matter which sort of waiting; they ranged from waiting for the food to cook to a soldier's wife waiting for his return to the dawn's breaking. They were the unknown hours, where anything and everything could and would happen. And in the wee hours of the morn, Katla could imagine just about a hundred scenarios. Wolves and vampires and daedroths had filled her dreams and although Katla had lit a small candle, its flickering light only served to create terrifying shadows that prowled around her walls. She wished for the moons to sleep and for the sun's light. Her roommate turned over and mumbled in her sleep. Katla glanced over at her and then added on to her previous wish. She wished that she could sleep.

The cold winds had found their way inside the hall, as they always did. Katla had found that no matter how strong you built a house, no matter how tightly you packed the mud in-between the logs, the wind would always find its way in. It could be from a cracked window or from an abandoned mouse-hole that even the cats had long forgotten—the wind would always have its way. Katla curled up her legs and tightened her grip on her sheets. They were itchy and smelled faintly of mildew. They were a far cry from her uncle's luxurious furs but they helped against the cold. At least, enough so that Katla didn't need to wear a coat while she slept.

"Are you awake?" A voice hissed out from the dark. Katla pulled her pillow over her head and listened to her heart-beat thump. She had only recently returned to the Vigil—she had had enough of Keeper Carcette's lectures about loyalty. She listened as feet padded over to her dresser and as her candle was put out with a psssch. Katla held her breath; she could feel eyes on her "sleeping" body.
"Don't you know we're supposed to put out the lights before we sleep? Seriously..." She did not speak a word. If she had explained that she was actually awake, then the Vigilant would have asked her why she was pretending to sleep and if she expected that everybody clean up behind her and so on and so forth. By the time the Vigilant had left, Katla had finally fallen asleep.

"It's breakfast. Are you awake? It's getting cold," a voice whispered into her ear. Katla arose with a start and instinctively clutched her blankets to her chest. Sister Indrima let out a hoarse laugh; it cracked at times and it reminded Katla of a hurt dog. Sister Indrima had suffered a glancing axe blow to her neck years ago—was it the Great War? Katla could not remember—and had been reduced to whispers ever since. Some called her name in mocking silence; Katla did not.
"Thanks," she replied. Katla had not seen the Redguard for a long while and while she was a welcome sight, her scarred face took some time getting used to.
"What's wrong?" Indrima whispered. "Is it my face? I don't know if you remember it but yes, these are real, and yes, I don't bite. Now come get breakfast." She hopped off the bed and beckoned.
"I have to wash up first," Katla smiled. That was the Indrima she remembered. Always making light of things—she wondered if the scars really did not bother her like she claimed. Somehow, Katla felt like she was actually telling the truth. She would have to ask her what her secret was sometimes. "Save a spot at the table for me! And maybe one of those pastries, if they have it."
"As you command, your Highness." Indrima left the room before poking her head back in the doorway. "I don't think they have pastries, though. I don't know about your fancy uncle but the Vigil's fallen on some hard times lately. No septims to spare for... pastries."

When Katla entered the main hall, Indrima was nowhere to be found. When she had questioned other Vigilants, she found out that she had been assigned guard duty for the morning.
"Great," she mumbled. Now she would have to find her own seat—the Vigil held many new faces for her. Though Katla had returned a week prior, she was still not well acquainted with many of the Vigilants. It unsettled her just how much the organization had changed from last she'd properly seen it a year ago. The first few days had been the hardest as Katla had struggled to return to the strict regime of the Vigil. Not only that, she had to deal with the fact that some of the Vigilants she'd considered friends were dead. The Daedra, Keeper Carcette had said, do not take breaks nor rest. The words had weighed heavy on her heart then and they did now—the empty seats at the tables squeezed at her throat. Although Indrima had said what she'd said in jest, they replayed over and over in her mind. Her friends had been dying for the Vigil—where had she been? In Winterhold, Katla thought bitterly, playing house with her cousins.

Still, it would not do for her to brood on what things could have been. That sort of thinking was reserved for the strangest hours—the sun hung heavy in the sky now and it washed away the fears she had felt earlier. Now was a time to focus, to recollect herself, and embody the values that the Vigil held. After all, she had a mission to complete. They were still testing her, she knew, as the mission was not a dangerous one—in the grand scheme of things. Keeper Carcette had informed her of a museum opening in the nearby city of Dawnstar. Their job was to shut down this unholy temple and to kill the curator and any visitors. Katla had been assigned only one partner for the mission. What had her name been?

"Aithne!"
It came to her as she spotted her at a table. She ate alone and Katla knew why—she was a Reachwoman. She, like any other Nord girl, had been brought up on bedtime stories of their kind. The witchmen of the Reach, strange and malevolent creatures that feasted on the blood of Nord children, hidden pacts between Hagravens and Daedric monsters—the list went on. Children tales... Katla had grown up enough to know that they weren't true. Still, upon seeing the tattoo on Aithne's head, she couldn't help but feel slightly apprehensive.
"I didn't know you were here! I'm sorry I'm late—I just couldn't wake up today. You know how it is... especially before an official mission." Katla sat down across from her and reached out for a basket of rolls. There was butter a few feet away from her but the knife looked dirty, almost as if someone had licked it clean. She decided that the bread tasted good enough by itself. If nothing else, it was hot and freshly baked.
"I've been to Dawnstar before. It's a nice city—they have this stall there with salted fish? The man who owns it, he says that he'll only sell it dried. But if you really talk to him, he'll actually cook you a fresh one. It's amazing. We should visit it when we're done with the museum! I hope he's still there... I haven't really been to Dawnstar in years."

 

[Kuno]

Aithne was no fool. Let the wrath of the Divines rain down upon this wretched world before she'd ever be branded a fool. They'd tried many times to outwit her, and all attempts had failed. Including this one. Aithne sat rigidly on her bed and watched with constrained anger as Brother Marcus read off her assignment. He was a nice enough man; an Imperial, nonetheless, but a nice enough man. Nice enough to help her from time to time, that is. Her inability to read forced her to ask for assistance when given missions, and he was often the only one to oblige. The resident Nords shared her mutual distrust and tended to keep their distance, which was just as well. But hearing the contents of that letter made her irrationally angry at all the Vigilant, race be damned.

"You must be joking," She hissed.

Brother Marcus looked amused, much to her annoyance. "Not at all. It says you leave tomorrow with the new recruit for Dawnstar, as early as you can-" she rose to her feet "-nothing too difficult, I wager," He added. Aithne gave him a scalding look. Of course it wasn't too difficult. That was precisely why she was upset. Well after Brother Marcus had left—and been thanked—she lay in her bed awake, frenzied thoughts fluttering across her mind. She had known for a long time she was going to Dawnstar; that was no surprise to her. The surprise came in her mission. When she had returned from her previous mission, she was promised that her next would be something far more difficult, dangerous, and up to her abilities. She had trusted them, believing that at last, they had recognized her talent. How naïve she'd been. Her assignment was about as dangerous as a mewling calf. All she was required to do was halt the activities of some daedra museum, a request so benign a newborn babe could do it. And as if they'd known that, this time they had paired her with the equivalent of a babe, some new recruit by name of Katla. We only wish to test her, Keeper Carcette had wrote. Yes, and test Aithne as well, apparently. She honestly didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. Aithne hugged her knees to her chest. She never came to the Vigilant on some pretense of making friends; on the contrary, her sole hatred for daedra and daedra worshippers spurred her on. But sometimes, she wished in some way she could belong, just for a moment. Whether as former Forsworn or Reachmen or Vigilant—she cared not what they called her—she simply wanted her work to make a difference. And most importantly, be recognized; a whimsical fantasy for someone like her.

At some point in the night, Aithne fell asleep. She awoke at sunrise, a bad taste in her mouth and a bitter ache on her heart. Not the best way to start the day, but she had had worse mornings. After washing quickly with frigid cold water, Aithne got dressed. It would be a short trip to Dawnstar, about a day or two of travel if all went well. She had only packed the barest of essentials. In the event that the trek dragged out, she had some coin to buy supplies. Slinging her pack across her shoulder, she headed for the main hall. The hour was still early, so she was one of the first to arrive for a meal—if you could call it that. Cold gruel and bread were the items for today; in the grey contents of her bowl, a fly had found his final resting place. By the Nine. Swallowing a curse, she flicked the fly out her gruel and said nothing of it to her server. She was never one to complain about any meal she was given. After all, the Vigil had never been an organization flowing in coin. Pickings were slim, and donations slimmer. They were lucky the local holds still supported them. And she, more than anyone, understood what it meant to survive on nothing.

Aithne took a seat at a table near the back wall adjoining the window, as far away from the other Vigilant as possible. It's not that she disliked them. It was more that she hated the way they constantly looked at her as she ate, as if she was alien. One Nord want so far to ask who had taught her how to use a spoon, and the reply that he was given was enough to have her meeting with Keeper Carcette. Even the non-natives were in on it, something that she considered even more a betrayal. So she sat alone, alone with her thoughts and out of watching eyes. A privilege she would fight to keep, so help her—

"Aithne!"

Aithne's head snapped up. A tall, Nordic woman approached her table. She regarded the woman with scrutinizing eyes. Had she met this woman before? Then, as the woman began to sit, recognition crashed through her mind like a wave, and her mouth thinned into a straight line.

"I didn't know you were here! I'm sorry I'm late—I just couldn't wake up today. You know how it is... especially before an official mission." Now that the woman—Katla, she reminded herself—was seated right across from him, her heart sank. She had known the woman was younger than her, but the youthfulness of Katla's features still caught her off-guard. If anything, she looked more like a girl of fifteen than one almost twenty. Life had not been as kind to Aithne. Her troubled past had etched itself into the folds of her skin; she was twenty-three, yet felt fifty. Aithne turned her eyes away as Katla continued to prattle on. The other Vigilant were watching them, perhaps because almost no one ever came, or dared, to sit with her. A mistake that would not be repeated.

"I've been to Dawnstar before." She snapped her attention back to Katla. "It's a nice city—they have this stall there with salted fish? The man who owns it, he says that he'll only sell it dried. But if you really talk to him, he'll actually cook you a fresh one. It's amazing. We should visit it when we're done with the museum! I hope he's still there... I haven't really been to Dawnstar in years."

A passerby might have thought they were speaking of a field trip, the way the woman carried on. Still, her excitement was infectious. Aithne stirred her meal with a spoon, remaining quiet for a bit. What to even say in reply to this? She stared dismally into her bowl before drawing her gaze back to Katla's, her eyes hard as steel.

"I have neither the coin nor patience to go traipsing around Dawnstar in search of some fish stall," She said curtly. The words came out harsher than she intended. To distill this, she softened her face a bit. "I mean only that I wish to get this daedra matter over with as soon as possible. I have no thought to spare of other, trivial things," Aithne added in a low voice. You're not angry at her, she thought to herself, you're angry at them. But she couldn't help but link her unfortunate mission to the cherubic face across from her, so much so that she grew angry again just looking at her. She dragged her eyes away, back down to her food.

"When we are finished eating, we should leave," She continued, taking a spoonful of gruel. It tasted like wet paper; still, she ate it with the relish of someone eating boar's meat. "Better to cover more ground while there's daylight."​

 

[malina]

There were many in the Vigil who had just cause for bitterness. It was the ground their Hall was built on, the drafty walls that housed the Vigil; bitter thoughts were the foundation of their organization. Bitterness against the daedra, their followers, against laws that stopped you from beating someone to a pulp with a mace—you had to be bitter to be part of the Vigil. When Aithne spoke, Katla was reminded of her brother's wife, who had been often lashed out at her during her stay. She was frustrated, Katla knew, but whether that ire was really directed at her or whether she was merely the closest thing Aithne had to vent on, she did not know. It made no difference, not really.
"You're right," Katla sighed and picked apart her roll. Somehow, it did not taste as fresh as it had a few moments ago and she reached for the butter—dirty knife or no. She buttered each piece generously, as if Sister Indrima had not told her of the Vigil's poor state. Katla became acutely aware of the stares they were receiving—evidently Reachwomen were not well received anywhere in Skyrim, let alone the Reach. She licked the knife.

"I wish I had a horse," she said cautiously. Wishes were a neutral subject, so long as they didn't involve politics. Everyone had wishes. Beggars and Jarls and sailors had wishes—sometimes they even shared them. Even the Daedra, monsters that they were, had wishes. A small voice in the back of her head told her that somehow, Aithne would not be most keen on the Stormcloaks. Katla herself had gained a few doubts about them—not the cause, but rather the soldiers that had seemed to have not heard from her brother. "His name is Wulfrik," she remembered saying. "He's a Stormcloak, just like you. Have you seen him? I'm his sister." The soldier had laughed then. "I know a dozen Wulfriks. How am I supposed to know which one's your brother?" Katla had tried to describe him but to her shame, realized that she had not seen her brother for a few years. He had blond hair, just as she did. And blue eyes. And he was strong—or at least she thought he must have been, for he was her brother.

"Don't you wish you had a horse? That way, we wouldn't need to carry around all this stuff all the time." If nothing else, she hoped that they could bond over complaining. "Seriously. I need to carry a pot—so we can actually cook things—you can't just eat snow, you know; tents, blankets, stuff like axes... not even going to mention all the clothes we have to wear." Though Katla had been born in the North, even she could get tired of snow. Especially when it soaked her boots, as it always did, and made her toes turn red. Back in Windhelm, her parents had sometimes taken her to the hot springs. They were around a week's journey when the roads were clear—which they rarely were—but the trips had always been worth it, especially when she grew older. The local boys knew the best places to be, places hidden from the Clever-Woad patriarch's watchful eyes.

"My back's going to give out early, by Talos." Katla grumbled and finished her bread. She brushed off the crumbs and stretched. Although the Vigil had taken—and encouraged—a neutral stance on the Civil War, individual Vigilants like Katla found small pleasure in invoking the banned Divine's name. She looked at Aithne and decided that she had time for one more roll. Whatever oatmeal-porridge bastardization she was eating did not look appetizing. "Sooo... how are we going to tackle this thing?" Katla frowned. "Keeper Carcette told me it was a museum of the Mythic Dawn. Or something like that—the paper's up in my room."

 

[Kuno]

The Nord was quiet for a moment. A blessing to Aithne. In the silence, she shoveled what was left of the gruel into her mouth and pushed the bowl away. By the Nine. The taste was beginning to make her stomach turn. Eyeing the basket of bread rolls on the table, she decided that in the event her gruel did make its way back up, she could take a bread roll for the journey. She was just beginning to reach for one when her partner spoke.

"You're right," Katla said with a soft sigh. Aithne watched as the Nord picked apart her own bread roll, buttering each side with a generous amount. Her face betrayed nothing; no wounded feelings, no indignant flash of anger to contradict her own statement. Just a blank, empty stare as she licked her butter knife. Aithne felt her own brows furrowing. She had a hard time knowing if people were making fun of her or not. The girl's statement had certainly seemed harmless enough. Finally, Aithne simply grunted in response, too caught up to give an actual reply. Her hand seized around the last bread roll, and she shoved it in her pocket. She could feel the eyes of others on her as she did so, so much so that she deliberately turned in her seat to stare back at them. The culprits quickly looked away.

"I wish I had a horse." Katla spoke so softly that Aithne almost didn't realize she was speaking. After recognizing what the girl had actually said, her eyes rolled skyward. By the Nine. If their entire journey was to be filled with useless prattle like this, she would hang herself. Aithne stared blankly at the Nord as she went on and on about all the things she would have to carry—the mention of a pot not lost on her, as Aithne had decided not to pack her own. Looked like the Nord would be useful after all.

"…not even going to mention all the clothes we have to wear," Katla was saying as she tuned back in. At this, the Reachwoman gave her a puzzled look. Clothes? Was she referring to extra clothes, excluding the ones on their back? Necessity demanded that she pack extra under garments for the long journey. But when it came to extra outer garments, Aithne saw no need to bring more. At least, she never used to. As she struggled to grasp her partner's meaning, the Nord finished off her bread.

"My back's going to give out early, by Talos," Katla grumbled, stretching a bit. At hearing the hero-god's name, Aithne's mouth settled into a hard line. Only these stubborn Nords insisted on continuously blaspheming with the name of Talos, a god barely worthy of the title. She had no idea if Katla had said that just to purposely get under her skin; if she had, then it worked. Before she could comment on it, her partner continued with, "Sooo…how are we going to tackle this thing? Keeper Carcette told me it was a museum of the Mythic Dawn. Or something like that—the paper's up in my room." Everything she said carried an air of nonchalance, as if they were merely discussing a nice trip to Dawnstar.

It was more than Aithne could take.

"Something like that indeed." Aithne's reply flew out her mouth, a hard edge to her words. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you weren't taking this mission seriously at all. I suggest you pray to your mighty Talos"—she curled her lip in disgust— "for the good sense to focus on the task at hand, instead of blithering on about silly little things." Her loud words caused the Nords to turn at the other table, and she felt them all watching as she abruptly rose from the table, tossing her pack over her shoulder.

"I'll be outside," She said curtly. Standing there looking down at the younger woman, Aithne felt tall and frighteningly mean. And terribly enough, just like the Nord's skewed thoughts of how Reachmen were. Her ears turning red in both embarrassment and anger, she walked away, rushing outside of the main hall into the blistering winds of Skyrim.​

 

[malina]

When Aithne left the Hall, Katla let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The tension deflated in her chest and soft chatter refilled the dining room. She was taller than the Reachwoman but she wasn't quite sure that she was stronger. Somehow, Katla felt like she'd lose in a fair fight and her cheeks flushed. Weakness was not befit of a Nord and she was sure that in some ancient barrow somewhere, her ancestors were rolling in their wrappings. Then she thought that no, they would have started rolling once they knew—and she was sure that they were looking down upon her—that she was working with a Reachwoman. A sympathetic cluck reached her and Katla smelled a faint odor of mead.

"Shor's Bones, but she's an angry one, eh?" Katla became uncomfortably aware of the man's extremely hairy arm around her neck. It felt prickly and somewhat rough. She wondered why animal fur was so soft.
"No, I think I made her angry." She shrugged. His arm did not budge. Katla shrugged again and this time, he had enough sense in him to remove his embrace. "I should go. I don't want to make her wait too long. It's cold outside."
He nodded. Katla thought that he was the type of man who grew a beard for the sake of growing one—it was matted and bristling like some angry beast had attached itself to his chin. "Cold winds are rising." It was strangely poetic in a way that seemed too foreign for a man like him. "You want to know the secret behind keeping warm? A belly full of this," he raised his mug and Katla could see a brown liquid, darkened by the mug, "and you'll never be cold again."
"My father told me never to get drunk in a snowstorm," Katla said. "I think one of his brothers died that way."
"Who said anything about being drunk?" He laughed. Katla attempted a smile but it turned into a grimace as his breath wafted into her face. She wondered why mead smelled so sweet in a cup but so rancid once it entered someone's mouth. "This is only a cup. The proper way to get drunk is to use a horn."
Katla thanked him for his advice then, and after a few half-hearted farewells, made her way to her room. He had managed to convince her to take a drink from his cup and the sweet taste of mead lingered in her mouth.

Her room—or more accurately, their room, for the Vigil could not spare single rooms for everyone—was mostly empty save for three Vigilants talking in a corner. She smiled at them and listened in on their conversation as she got dressed. Brother Hjalmar had been missing for two weeks by now, they said, and did you think that he was killed or hiding in Falkreath? No, not Falkreath—it was Valenwood he had run off too, said an older girl. As far away from the Vigil as you could get. Katla hefted her pack—organized the night before—and left. She wondered if she would see the room again and then reminded herself that they were only shutting down a museum.

She had left Aithne waiting for a long time. She hoped that the cold would have frozen her temper but judging from the look on her face, nothing had changed much. Katla sighed; her breath made clouds in the frosty air.
"I'm sorry I took so long," she mumbled. Small flakes of snow found their way through her neckline and inside her clothes. They melted against her skin and made her shiver slightly. Katla pulled up her scarf. "I hope you weren't waiting for too long. I'm ready to go whenever you are. Ready?"
She pulled out a bottle she had taken from the Hall. The worn out label read simply, "Bluebell Mead".
"Someone told me that it helps for the cold... and I know you were standing out here waiting." She hesitated before uncorking the bottle (with some difficulty). "Here! You can take the first sip."

 

[Kuno]

As she stepped out into the crisp, southern wind, Aithne tugged her hood up and over her head, letting the worn wool serve as a buffer between her and Skyrim. After realizing she'd forgotten her gloves, she shoved her hands in her pockets. She couldn't go back for them now, not after leaving in such a way. Aithne sighed deeply, her breath escaping her lips in tendrils. The Reachwoman was used to the cold by now. Whether it be in the cutting chill of Skyrim's winters, or the cold shoulder from fellow Vigilant members, it mattered not. She was all hardness and rough edges. She couldn't care less what people thought of her.

And yet, guilt ate at her insides.

Aithne began to pace along the path outside the hall. She knew she had a temper. Stendarr alone knew just how bad she knew her temper was. But those who felt the burn of her tongue often deserved it; drunken clouts with troublesome hands, other Vigilant who ostracized her for her race. The list could go on and on. She'd never once regretted her actions. But now guilt—and a bit of cold feet—made her pace back and forth on the snow like a madwoman. And for what? A Nord, of all people. Aithne toed the ground a bit, a frown on her face. She was starting to realize why she was so angry. And she didn't like the answer one bit. Sighing softly, she stared out into the fog. This was going to be a long trip.

She heard the Nord before she saw her. Straightening up a bit, she turned to face Katla as the younger woman approached her. Her eyes regarded Aithne cautiously, and the guilt began to twinge at her again.

"I'm sorry I took so long," Katla mumbled, her voice barely audible. Aithne gave her a blank look. Had it really been so long? For once, her mind began working before her mouth did, and she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut while the Nord spoke. She could not, however, keep her eyes from widening in surprise when Katla offered her some mead. A few seconds ticked by as she stared at the bottle. "Bluebell Mead"—she could barely make out the name on the torn label. She slowly took the bottle from the Nord, her brows furrowing. When was the last time anyone had offered her a drink? Was it in the Reach? No—even then she'd been outcast, her own husband refusing to even break bread with her. The tavern where she'd worked had been friendly enough, but there too old prejudices kept her isolated from them all. Hesitating, she finally lifted the bottle to her mouth and took a sip. The mead was sweet as it entered her mouth. After wiping her mouth, she held the bottle back out to Katla. Something faintly resembling a smile rested on her lips.

"It's sweet," Aithne finally said. A little bit too sweet, but there was no need to share that. Besides, the mead made her think of other things, things she needed to say before they began. Taking a deep breath, the Reachwoman fixed her eyes on the young woman in front.

"Katla." She waited until she had gotten her companion's full attention. "Don't ever share your drink with me again." The tone of her words was not unkind. She locked eyes with the girl, her gaze somber.

"Don't ever share your drink with me again," She repeated, "I am a Reachwoman. You know that; the rest of the Vigil know that. But what you don't understand is that this place is not as neutral as you believe. True, we have made great strides in political neutrality, but old prejudices die hard"—Stendarr alone knew her own prejudices. Taking a step forward, she attempted to cull her expression into something softer.

"Listen…I understand you are new here?" A question, only because she had heard the girl had once been a member but left some time ago. Not that she cared. "You have your reputation to protect as a Nord. And attempting to become friendly with me will only sully your name. So once we've returned, things will go on as if we have never met. Ok?" Aithne finished, her breath billowing in the air between them.

It came to her then, in a burst of cold air against her skin, the reason why she found it so hard to resent this Nord. Why her cherubic smile and youthful cheer irritated her so, and yet made her heart warm at the same time. Staring with sudden clarity, she couldn't help but see it now. Katla reminded her of her sister, who had died when she was sixteen. Aithne turned away sharply, feeling off-balance.

Divines help her. This was going to be a long journey.​

 

[malina]

Katla swished the mead around in her mouth as Aithne spoke. It was true what she said—the Reachmen and the Nords were historical enemies. Even now she heard of the "Forsworn" who were supposedly running rampant in the Reach. She'd heard that they killed indiscriminately; Stormcloaks and Empire soldiers had learned that lesson the hard way. But Aithne was her Sister—though Reachwoman she was—and despite her warnings of the Vigil, Katla did not wish to believe it was true.
"It's only a drink," she said. She was about to smile but then thought that Aithne might mistake it for a mocking one. Her lips twitched and remained still. "If the Vigil can call you Sister, then they can handle us sharing a drink, don't you think?"

Having finished with the bottle, Katla set it down in the middle of the road where those on guard duty would see it (and, hopefully, pick it up). She began to walk slowly down the road. Her staff made a light thump with every step and although Katla leant heavily on the old wood, it showed no sign of strain.
"When we come back," her voice was muffled by the scarf once more. It gave a slightly exhausted air to her voice but her stride was as strong as ever—they had barely left the Vigil's doorstep. "When we come back, we can act like we're strangers if you want. But until we do... can't we just talk? I mean, it's going to be a really long journey if we're going to act like we don't know each other for the entire time."

Truth be told, Katla was a little conflicted over Aithne. She was the first Reachwoman she'd worked with. Although she told herself that children's tales were just that, looking at her primeval tattoo reminded her that not everything in the stories were false. Her tattoo was not so dissimilar to the Nords' and yet it was wrong in the most insidious, subtle ways. Dots where there should have been crosses; yellows where there should have been blues. It made her think of wild goatmen chanting over fires that licked at burning Nord children, tattoos made of scars and blood, forest wines that made you wild with cannibalistic lust—the list went on and on. But they aren't true, she told herself. Ask Aithne if you're so curious. Ask her if you feel stupid enough.

The scariest part was that she wasn't so sure Aithne would say no. That she too, had lived the wild life of the Reach.

"You know," she mused aloud. "You know, you could just paint over that tattoo if you wanted to. It's not hard to make paint—we just need some flowers. Or maybe Dawnstar will have some! Then nobody would know that you're from the Reach—the Reach, Reach I mean. And then," she laughed, "we could have a drink."
The laughter died in her throat as she looked over at Aithne.
"I was joking," she added hastily.

 

[Kuno]

If she could say one thing about Katla, it would be that the Nord was not easily deterred. Heavily wrapped in a cloak and scarf, with only her eyes burning bright over the material, there was a resilient quality about the younger woman that Aithne hadn't really noticed before. The girl seemingly let Aithne's warnings roll off her shoulders in a move that could only stem from naivete. But, so be it. Begrudgingly, she realized that the Nord had made a good point about the way they should deal with each other. She had no problems talking with the girl, so long as no one around realized she was a Reachwoman. It was the act of becoming friends that bothered her. Shoving her hands deep into her pockets, she half-listened as Katla suggested putting paint over her tattoo. At that, she turned her gaze sharply to the Nord's face. Paint over it? Just as quickly as she began to respond, her companion, looking over at her, seemed to regret her statement.

"I was joking," Katla said quickly, the smile fading from her lips.

An obvious lie. Biting back a response, Aithne settled for a mere grunt of acknowledgement. Interacting with Katla was like talking to a younger sibling. She had to be careful of what she said and what she did, lest she prick the Nord's feelings. And the Nord, on the other hand, seemed to get under her skin like no one else did. Like a younger sister. Letting out a sigh, Aithne picked up her pace to catch up with Katla. The girl's stride was long and fast, forcing her to walk twice as fast to keep up with her. The Reachwoman tried not to let it irritate her. She forced her mind to other things, such as conversation. As much as she detested small talk, she couldn't deny that she was curious about Katla's past. Where she was from. And why in Stendarr's name she would think to return to the Vigilant. But she wouldn't ask these things all at once, of course.

"Is this your first mission?" The question sounded faint over the wind. Annoyed, Aithne repeated it. "Since you've returned, that is."

 

[malina]

It was almost better if she'd not heard the question at all. Although Katla had been on a few missions before, none of them held any happy memories—at least not now. Sans Sister Indrima, her old friends had all been killed or gone missing. That small irrational part of her that had been scared of the shadows in the morning awoke and made her hesitate before speaking. She knew that it was foolish to think so but a voice in her head whispered of the bad luck that surrounded her. First your parents, then your brother, then your Brothers, it said. Who's next—your uncle? Indrima? Ait-

"Oh, yes. I haven't been back for long, you know? It's only been a week." The cold was starting to nip at her cheeks. Skyrim's winds would not be denied for long, even with all the layers she'd put on. She wondered sometimes just why her ancestors had chosen to settle in such a desolate land.
"You really don't get to miss the Vigil," she admitted. "Carcette yelling at me—it's like I feel like I never left to begin with, you know? I mean, I won't say I didn't deserve it most the time... but she's just so, oh, I don't know. Over-the-top? I mean, I know she means well for us but still—talk about temper!"

Things she'd never say to her superior face-to-face. For a second she worried about the consequences she'd face if Aithne told on her. But the Vigil was running low on bodies—alive ones, that is—and she doubted that she'd face anything than what she'd already faced before. A lecture or two on respect, perhaps extra hours on guard or, she made a face, cleaning duty and besides, which Vigilant hadn't made a complaint about her strictness before?

"I hope it doesn't snow anymore than this. I don't know if we can make it to a village before nightfall... I brought a tent, and some blankets just in case. Did you bring anything?"
Camping in the wilderness had never been her forte. Ever since the incident between her parents and the vampires on the road, the night had always frightened her. She was glad for Aithne's company then, for she was sure that she'd be able to ward off any threat but still... the thoughts of the dark night ahead of them made her shiver. It wasn't even the thought of vampires that scared her—her thoughts were much more incorporeal; an ever changing cloud of wolves and owls and other beasts—but in their line of business, one could be sure to encounter a daedric monstrosity from time to time.

 

[Kuno]

The Nord seemed to pause at Aithne's question, so much so that she couldn't help but peer over at her younger companion to see if the woman had truly heard. But she had, without a doubt. A dark expression now rested on Katla's features. Blinking in surprise, Aithne wondered what about her question could have possibly offended her. However, just as quickly as it had come, the dark emotion was replaced with an unreadable look in her eyes.

"Oh, yes. I haven't been back for long, you know? It's only been a week." Though her tone was chipper, it didn't quite reach her eyes. Uncomfortable with her sudden awareness of the girl, Aithne looked away. Reading people's emotions had always been a skill of hers, although she never welcomed it. And in this case, she would be more than ready to forget the small glimpse of emotion she'd seen in the girl. She couldn't help but be curious. And that irritated her. Turning her mind away from that, she pulled her hood further into her neck. She hadn't thought to wear a scarf like the young Nord did, and now she was suffering from it. The wind licked at her skin and ripped through the layers of clothing she wore. It was a brittle cold. Briefly, she wondered if the Katla was just as affected. But that couldn't be. The girl was still chattering this and that about the Vigil, as if the cold didn't bother her one bit. At the mention of Sister Carcette, Aithne stifled a snort. Temper, indeed. Things almost turned explosive when their two tempers came to a head, after Carcette realized that the Reachwoman would not fold to her like some simpering maid. After that initial incident, the woman hardly bothered her now. Whether it was for her sake or Aithne's sake, she doesn't know.

"I hope it doesn't snow anymore than this," Katla said, drawing Aithne's attention back to her. The girl's cheeks were ruddy from the cold. And she had made a valid point; the snow was falling heavier now, the wind stronger than it had been before. By the Nine. It was just their luck to go out in a snowstorm. It briefly reminded her of another mission last year. The storm had been so bad then that her and her partner had been forced to camp in a cave for a full day. The fool had almost froze to death; if Aithne hadn't shared his tent, he would've died in his sleep. All because he didn't want to sleep near a Reachwoman. Imbecile. Shaking her head slightly, she pondered Katla's question. What had she brought with her?

"I have no tent," Aithne admitted, "But I have other provisions. And if we must, we can make camp for the night. I am accustomed to sleeping outside." And while stereotypical, her statement rang true. Many a night she had spent out in the open, first as a Forsworn, than as a traitor, than as an outcast. It's perhaps the one place that hasn't been denied to her. Not yet, anyways.

"If the storm keeps up, we can make camp. No need to freeze to death before we get there," She added humorlessly.​

 

[malina]

Sleep outside? In this weather? Katla shook her head. When she was younger, she'd found it strangely comforting to doze in snow banks. It wasn't cold, not wrapped up in her coats, and she'd found that time would soon ease the numbing sting in her legs and feet. It was almost hypnotizing, she remembered, watching and feeling the snowflakes fall from the grey sky and melt on her face. Her mother had put an end to it—she'd found her near frozen huddled in the snow. That was the day Katla learned just how deceiving Skyrim could be.

"You're going to sleep in the snow?" She blurted out before she could stop herself. "I mean, even if we scrape it away and like get a fire going, won't it be; oh, I don't know... I mean, there's all that dirt and it'll be cold even if you stay right next to the fire."
Some part of her wondered if Aithne was really accustomed to the wilderness like she claimed. When she'd traveled with Brother Bjalfi some time ago—had it been a year? two?—Katla had shivered through an entire fortnight at the the very edge of their tent, despite his assurances that it was okay, that there was nothing weird between the two of them. Of course, Brother Bjalfi had turned out to be a sort of deviant, but still... she knew the feeling well and she hoped that Aithne was not sharing in that same aversion.

"Maybe we'll be lucky and meet one of those cat merchants on the road." She mused. She did not have much experience in dealing with the Khajiit. In truth, they scared her more than the Reachmen did. It wasn't anything she could pinpoint down; their whole appearance was so uncanny, but if she had to pick one aspect of them that would have scared her if they were on a regular Nord, it would have had to have been their eyes. They were decidedly inhuman and their piercing glare combined with their jolting movements made her quite uneasy.

Still, on the road you could not be picky for company. That in itself was evident in her travelling companion. The Khajiit, as unnerving as they were, brought protection from both wolves and the elements. They were always trucking their caravans around and their tents made Katla's look like a rag on sticks—which it was dangerously close to resembling anyway without the comparison.
"They aren't Daedra worshippers, are they?" She frowned. "I can't remember. As long as we keep a close eye on our things, I don't think there would be any trouble. If we even see them, that is."

The road ahead was quiet and every clunk of her staff seemed conspicuously loud. It was the sort of loud where you knew that no one heard it but you, like the beating of your heart, and yet seemed loud enough for the entire world to hear.
"It would be nice to be a Kha... jin? I think. Think of how warm you'd be! Of course, you'd have to deal with having a tail and whiskers... but think of how warm you'd be! I bet their homeland is somewhere real cold, like here."

 

[Kuno]

Her feet and legs had gone numb. As she walked, Aithne paused to shake out one leg, and then the other, before continuing her dreaded march across frozen tundra. If she were on her own, she would've been looking around for a potential campsite in case of an emergency. The northern terrain of Skyrim was wild and unpredictable. A blizzard could be stirred up in an instant. But at hearing her companion's response, Aithne resigned herself to a sigh. Katla was not accustomed to making camp; that much was obvious. And without her help, making camp in the woods would take far too long. The issue was moot. Tugging her hood closer, the Reachwoman risked a glance at her younger companion. Much to her wonder, the girl was still spry, her eyes alight with a vibrant energy. So then, it was true what they said about Nords. Her father used to always tell her that Nords had demon blood in them, and that's why they could stand the cold so well. Of course, Aithne dismissed his claims once she got older, but she couldn't deny that there was something otherworldly about Katla's tolerance of the cutting winds.

Otherworldly, too, was the Nord's capacity to talk. Now she was carrying on about Khajiit. Saints be. At least there would never be a tense silence between the two, as she had shared with so many of her previous companions. At the thought of meeting a Khajiit on the roads, Aithne snorted.

"There will be no Kha-jiit," Aithne finally said, subtly correcting Katla's blunder, "They don't travel this far north." At least, she didn't think so. Truth be told, she was as unfamiliar with the little cat-monsters as she was with the lizards. Their ways were strange to her. And the only sighting she'd had of one had been from a distance, way up into the mountains on a scouting mission. It was more than she needed to see.

A faint noise sounded suddenly in the distance. Aithne paused. It was gone as quickly as it had come, and after waiting a moment more, it came again, this time much louder. And at the familiar sound, all the hairs on the back of her neck were raised. Something was up.

"Wait." Aithne's voice was naught but a whisper. Her eyes darting around the surroundings, it was pure instinct that made her grab Katla's arm, pulling the younger woman to a halt. "Don't you hear that?"

Through the whining of the wind, she couldn't hear anything at first. But then, it finally came: a piercing howl, cutting through the thick of the storm. Aithne felt every muscle in her body tighten. The howl sounded far enough away, but they couldn't be too cautious. The surrounding noise could easily blanket the pack's movements, and they could never how many of them there were. Could be six, could be just one. They would never know until they were upon them.​

It took Aithne a moment to realize her hand still gripped Katla's arm. Tearing herself away, Aithne resettled herself. "We should keep moving...but keep an eye out," She murmured, throwing a final look at the surrounding forest.​