[h3]A Huntress, A Wolf…

[right]A Mountain Looming...[/right][/h3]

Latro stepped out into the glaring sunlight, a hand held over his brow like a visor and moaning with the strain of his eyes adjusting. There was something he needed to do. He’d been putting it off too long and now he’d gone and threatened the lives of one of his friends. Several, actually. If he waited any longer…

He shook his head, not wanting to think on that. Going about his morning activities, he’d stop every so often and have to shake himself from the recollection of his dream. Those too were getting worse. It was only getting easier of a decision to take up Mazrah’s offer to control the wolf inside of him, and today was that day. Freshly clean and ready as he could be for the day, he stood outside his and Sora’s tent, watching the going on of the camp. Children were kicking around a ball or practicing swordsmanship. Vendors were setting up stalls and the smell of food was tickling at his nose on the soft breeze.

First order of business was breakfast. He dumped a ladle-full of water down his throat before he did the same for his hair, the harsh sun already raging over his pale Reachman skin. Parting with his septims, he continued on towards his destination with two meat skewers, taking the first steps towards where he needed to be. Admittedly, for a woman of her stature, it was surprisingly hard to find her. 

It was a good fifteen minutes of looking before he did, following pointed fingers and nods of Alik’r people that finally brought him to the Orsimer woman who was at once both fearsome and friendly. He drew in a breath through his nose, resuming the walk towards her. He raised his hand in greeting, which also held a meat skewer, “Mazrah.” His face was stuck somewhere between trepidation and determination, “I’m ready.”

She had been towards the far end of the canyon that sheltered the tribes by herself, to work out -- exercise was something she’d neglected ever since she arrived in Gilane and that simply wouldn’t do. Mazrah looked up when she heard Latro’s voice and approach and a slow grin spread across her face when she saw that he was serious about it. “Good,” she said as she straightened up and she beat her fist to her chest once. Her skin was glistening with sweat and she had to readjust the strap of her top to prevent it from slipping off and baring her breasts entirely. “I’m proud that you have the courage to seek me out and confront this head-on. The first step is often the hardest,” the Orsimer huntress added. Her eyes lit up when she saw the meat skewer. “Is that for me?” 

For the first time that day, Latro managed a small, almost indiscernible smile. But it was a smile. “Yes.” He said, his voice a bit happier just to have her company. There was something about the woman that brought him courage when he thought there was none to be found. “I figured breakfast was in order. Something light.”

As she took the offered skewer, Latro bit into his own, speaking around his mouthful, “So, what’s to do first?”

“Thank you,” Mazrah beamed and tore into the meat with delight. She was hungry after her exercises. “Good question,” she said with her mouth full and motioned for the two of them to sit down where they stood. The sand was pleasantly warm in the shade of the canyon but not too hot. She swallowed hard and grinned. “First we eat and talk. There are some things I need to know.” Without regard for tact or gentleness, Mazrah pressed ahead. “What usually draws out the wolf in you?”

Unperturbed by the woman’s forwardness, he sat calmly and chewed on the thought, his eyes cast off to the side while he did so, “Anger.” He finally said, but that wasn’t enough, “Anger, fear. Pain. When they mix, I lose control. It’s like somebody else takes my wrists and legs and holds my head to watch myself tear through men like silk.”

“I used to like it, revel in it. To beat my chest and lay low men twice my size and see their hubris shrink to the size of a louse’s prick.” Even now, he found his hand shaking and his knuckles white while gripping his skewer. He was sheepish of a sudden, chuckling and taking another bite, “That’s how it feels.”

She nodded. “That sounds familiar.” Mazrah looked at him with curiosity, however. It was a peculiar way of describing the sensation and she had to remind herself that the things that Latro experienced could not be identical to the berserker’s rage of the Orsimer people. He did not have that blood in him. That was clear as day. “Not identical to how I would describe my rage, but I think it’s enough to work with,” she said and finished the rest of her meal with a few hungry bites. 

“Before we ever deliberately draw out this wolf of yours -- yes, that is part of it -- we’re going to practice some techniques to help guide your emotions,” she explained. “Have you ever received any lessons like that from anyone?”

Latro shook his head. The only training he had ever done was with his father, Ruddy-Bull. He was a harsh teacher with harsh lessons and many a time he went to bed still bleeding and sore. Fighting the other children first coming of age was a ritual and a test, whether it was pitted against one in the circle or given a weapon and shoved into a mass of them all punching and slicing and snarling.

To say the Reach loved its children was a half-lie. It loved only the strong. “No.” Latro shook his head, “Never. They wanted the wolves out of us, the warriors and killers. None else.”

“Whatever you have for me to learn today, I will learn it.” Latro smiled with some effort.

So the Reachmen were more feral than the Orsimer of Orsinium. That was an interesting revelation to Mazrah and not one she had expected. “That’s the spirit,” she said with a grin. “We’ll start with something simple. Breath is the key to control, so breathing exercises to keep you grounded and focused, even when rage claws at your heart, are the foundation for everything else we’re gonna do.” 

She made herself comfortable in the lotus position and placed her hands in her lap. The nostrils of her nose flared as she took a slow, deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled equally slowly. “Like so,” she said and gestured for Latro to copy her. 

Latro nodded, looking Mazrah over as she sunk herself into the lotus position. For something she’d said would be drawing on his aggression, this was starting to look a lot more like what Raelynn was teaching him. He decided to follow Mazrah, he too crossed his legs and drew in a breath. He held it at the top and let it go, a beat passed and he drew in another…

[hr]

Finnen let his breath out in a grunt, taking Mazrah’s shoulder to his gut in stride now as he sprawled. She’d come on fast this time, or faster than the other times anyways, and he almost let her get the better of him. His eyes were wide as he felt Mazrah’s arms tense around his waist and her hands snake around his thighs to dig their fingers into the backs of his knees.

He drew in a breath, growling with the effort of keeping his legs out and straight lest Mazrah gain the advantage as she was so damned fond of doing. His own arms, which even Sora had noticed had grown since he’d started training with Mazrah, wriggled under the Orsimer’s shoulders. He roared, keeping his core tight and trying not to buckle under the strain. Already his right leg was shaking like mad, soles of his feet scratching the grass away and digging into the dirt beneath, but slow as slow, with the looming of a glacier her hands started to slip from his legs and they came slowly face to face. Their beared, growling teeth and flaring noses and wild eyes were inches apart. Their muscles writhed, taut beneath bare and sweat-slick skin threatening to burst apart.

They strained under the tension of each other’s strength, quietly growling and countering each of each other’s subtle repositionings. He could feel his heart pounding, threatening to sunder his ribs to dust. He only remembered to keep his breath going and even as he was suddenly whooping through the air. He found himself on his feet though, skidding through the dirt and grass several feet away from Mazrah. She was smiling, and so he returned his own, beating his chest once with both of his strong fists as he growled. The icy mountain air that replaced the dry and furious heat of Hammerfell burned away at his lungs with each heaving breath, the pain of it cutting through his fatigue as he looked across the clearing. Mazrah’s shoulders were heaving half as much as his own.

He slapped his hands against his thighs and his chest, bellowing out a vicious roar and sticking his tongue from his grimacing lips as he waited for the huge woman to charge him again. Though he kept his face a warrior’s image, he smiled in his thoughts, she’d taught him the Orsimer ways well and he reveled in it. A warrior once more.

Mazrah did not keep him waiting in suspense for very long. Despite the challenging nature of their work together, she enjoyed sparring with Finnen, Latro’s wolf. He was much stronger than he looked and as ferocious as any Orsimer she’d ever known. Except, perhaps, her brother. The warrior-huntress dashed across the forest floor, kicking up dead pine needles and earth as she went, and barreled into Finnen with her prodigious strength, wrapping one arm around his torso and one hand around the wrist of his right hand, while her feet worked to subdue Finnen’s legs and force him to bend the knee. 

“Deep breaths,” she growled in his ear while their bodies wrestled against the other’s strength. “Remember that you are Latro the bard and not just Pale-Feather the killer, remember your love for Sora!” With that, Mazrah’s eyes went over red and her muscles bulged with power, lifting Finnen into the air by his waist and throwing him into the dirt with an overhead toss. She knew he hated to be manhandled like that, but that was the point. In the deepest depths of Finnen’s rage, Latro should be able to retain control. 

Again, Finnen felt the air rushing around him as he turned in the air. This landing was not so graceful as he landed arse-first, rolling onto his back as he sprang off his hands to squat on his haunches. His eyes were wide, teeth beared and breath growling in his throat. He had not been so challenged since the Red-Bear.

But Pale-Feather… Finnen shook his head, again standing and forcing his hands open when they tried to close into crushing fists. He didn’t need Pale-Feather. His palms again slapped his thighs and his chest, he remembered the face of Sora. The strength of his promise to her and the strength of the kinship he had with the woman before him. Mazrah.

He breathed in deep, hot breath smoking on the air as it left his snarling lips. This time, he wouldn’t let her come to him. She had been given the easy task too often. The dirt beneath his feet near exploded from the force of his tensed legs as they propelled him, barreling into Mazrah’s hardwood stomach. He let go a small chuckle as he felt Mazrah’s hands around him like the roots of trees. His muscles almost buckled under her strength and it pained him to strain under them. But pain was the fuel, it made the fire grow.

His teeth felt like they were going to snap as he set his jaw, arms and core burning as he slowly lifted Mazrah, arms around her waist and legs. Her toes dangled but an inch from the grass of the clearing but it was a testament to his strength he’d gotten now. Rediscovered and renewed in Mazrah’s lessons. He took a few shaky steps forward and grunted as he pressed forward, the dirt grinding beneath his and Mazrah’s feet.

Mazrah’s eyes widened in surprise as the much smaller Finnen managed to lift her off her feet. It was an incredible achievement and it contributed to the understanding she had developed over the past few weeks about the things Latro had said; how he’d laid low men twice his size. It had seemed an impossible and empty boast at the time. However, her hands were still free. Finnen was doing this to prove a point instead of trying to win. Mazrah wrapped her arms around Finnen’s neck and yanked backwards, shifting their combined centers of gravity so that her feet touched the ground again and Finnen’s face was tilted towards the earth, disorienting his balance. From there, Mazrah hooked her leg around Finnen’s knee and forced him backwards with her berserker’s strength, laying him out on the ground. She quickly got on top of him and pinned his arms to the ground with her knees. 

“You have to use more than your strength,” Mazrah said with a grin, breathing hard, looking down on him. She pressed a finger to his temple and tapped repeatedly. “Use your head. You have nothing to prove to your enemy until they are defeated. There’s still too much Pale-Feather in charge.” 

He heaved in air and let it go in a laugh that came straight from his belly. “I forget.” He chuckled, looking away sheepishly towards his arms, trapped under Mazrah’s tree trunk legs. “Hard not to see this as a friendly competition. Hard to have to remember why we’re doing this.”

He frowned for but a second before Mazrah stood, taking her offered hand as she lifted him to his feet. He brushed himself off and the pair of them made their way to their packs, piled around a tree. Finnen rustled around and managed to find some jerky inside his travel pack, draining half his waterskin before he even threw the jerky into his mouth. “Tell me,” he said between chewing and breathing, “you said you’ve never been to the Reach?”

After plopping herself down on her butt next to her belongings, Mazrah shook her head at Latro’s question. “Nope. When I left Orsinium I went to other parts of High Rock, like Daggerfall. I wanted to see the big cities I’d heard about. Didn’t really care for the massive stick the Bretons stuck up their collective arse, so I went to Hammerfell and that’s where I met you guys. The Reach has missed out on my fantastic presence so far,” she explained and winked. “Are you excited to go back, Latro?” 

He smiled, nodded his head as he took another piece of jerky from the sack and offered some to Mazrah, “Part of me.” He said, “The part of me that’s scared of myself wanted to find some other way to Skyrim. But that part of me, Latro, was always a lie.”

He ran his hand through his hair, the tie coming out with his fingers and his long locks falling free again. “I’m Finnen of the Crow-Wife Clan. I’m not Latro, and lying about being a man of peace won’t do me any favors.” He smiled across to Mazrah, “But nor am I a mindless beast. I thank you.”

“What was it like? Your home? Your tribe?” He asked, “If your people have those.”

“Right, Finnen, sorry,” Mazrah said and smiled sheepishly. “I keep forgetting. When we first started you talked about Finnen as if he was something to be feared. I have to admit it’s… a bit confusing that you’re embracing that name again. But don’t worry, I’ll get used to it.” She, too, produced some food from her pack, veal that she’d bagged and prepared the night before, and munched away, answering Latro’s -- no, Finnen’s -- question in between bites. 

“Orsinium is a big city. Not like Daggerfall, but a big city all the same. The king rules all but there are also… I guess you could call them clans, but they’re more like big families, led by the oldest male,” Mazrah explained. “Ornim that live in the strongholds out in the wilds are different. They’re more like a tribe, with a chief and everything. I’ve never been to one.” She shrugged and then her eyes lit up. “There’s probably strongholds in the Reach! Maybe we’ll come across one, eh?” 

She swallowed the last of the veal and leaned back, resting on her hands, enjoying the cool air on her skin. “Back in Orsinium my father was the Hand of Mauloch when I was growing up. I guess it’s the same thing as a general. My brother killed him in single combat to become the next Hand. It’s pretty barbaric, I have to admit, but that’s just always been our way. Then my brother was a big fuckin’ idiot and got himself stripped of his title and exiled. I thought that was as good a time as any to leave as well and see more of the world.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “The Ornim of Orsinium don’t really… well, the men, at least… they don’t like that I like women better than them,” she finished and rolled her eyes. 

“There’s a few!” Finnen chuckled, “Some trade with some of the tribes that are more friendly. Some tribes even have little tusks, mostly the ones in the Dragontail mountains. I’ve never met them, but stories are told.”

“The Hand of Mauloch, like a War-Chief? My father was that, long ago when Madanach and his brother were peaceful and the Forsworn were not even a thought.” He smiled, remembering the precious few good moments with his family in the Reach. “So you left Orsinium because you were different in a way everyone thought was a much bigger reason than it ought to be?”

“I know the feeling. I was a runt, one that grew to look womanly. My father was a worshipper of Malacath, and he hated the weak and the beautiful.” Finnen shook his head, “Almost everything in my life that I’ve done has been to prove that even if I was everything my father hated, he would respect my strength, at least.”

“It wasn’t long until I became Forsworn. I too was cast out from my peoples’ lands for that. And here I am,” he smiled, fierce and defiant, “Ready to offer a rebuttal to those who would see me gone forever, who would disagree with who I love, man or woman. Betmer or Reachwoman.”

“Your brother was exiled too? Why?” He asked, simple curiosity.

Finnen’s story was inspiring and Mazrah returned his defiant smile encouragingly. Her face darkened when he asked about her brother, however. “He wanted war,” she said bluntly and shook her head. “It sounds like your father would have loved him. Maulakanth, his name was. The Maul of Orsinium, and then the Hand of Mauloch later. That was no coincidence, my father named him appropriately. He tried to instigate a conflict between Orsinium, the Nords to the north and the Redguard to the south. Damned prideful, he was. Believed that the passive stance of the king was an affront to all Ornim and that we should be taking the fight to the [i]ne vorshu,[/i] the unworthy, to extract [i]crunzurga[/i]. Revenge. The blood-price. Orsinium has been destroyed a lot over the ages. Our king believed that the key to avoiding that fate yet again was to [i]avoid[/i] conflict, just defending our borders where necessary. After a few years of them going back-and-forth about it like a pair of mules, the king had enough when Maul threatened to attack Nord territory in Skyrim unprovoked.” 

She laughed but there wasn’t a lot of mirth to be found in her voice. “An idiot, like I said. I tried to counsel him but he stopped listening soon after he killed our father. It’s a shame,” Mazrah said and looked away. “We were close, once. But our mother raised me and our father raised him. The differences proved… what’s the word?” she asked and cocked her head. “Real fancy word. Oh yeah, I’ve got it. Irreconcilable.” 

“I’m sorry.” Finnen frowned, chewing in silence for a few seconds, “At least your home is still yet safe. I don’t know what’s been happening in the Reach, not even in my own Clan. I haven’t been back here in years.”

“Perhaps my people have been better. But knowing they answered the call when the Dwemer propositioned them to secure the Eastern Reach…” Finnen shook his head, sighing, “My people have wanted a home for so long we’ve thrown ourselves at the feet of these… these slaughtering conquerors. There’s better ways.” He muttered.

“Do you miss him?” Finnen asked, “Miss home?”

“I’m not so sure Orsinium is safe,” Mazrah said. “But I hope so. I don’t really miss the city but I miss my mother.” The Orsimer smiled at the memories she recalled when she thought about Durash. “Right now I’m enjoying our adventure and the opportunity to be a heroine. They’ll sing songs about us, Finnen. Mazrah the Mer-Killer and Finnen the Ferocious. Mark my words.” 

Then she shrugged. “But Maulakanth… I miss who he was. I don’t miss who he became. Knowing him, he’s gotten himself killed by now somewhere in High Rock or something. It’s either him or everyone else,” she mumbled and wrapped her arms around herself. 

Finnen’s lips formed around her brother’s name once more, noiseless. Naught but a whisper, he recited it to himself and felt a memory tickle at him. The convoy, they spoke of a Maulakanth. But, to tell Mazrah? Finnen looked sidelong at Mazrah, her dejected face, “I... believe he still yet lives...” he said, just louder than the breeze.

Her eyes were on him faster than an eagle’s. “What did you say?” she asked, surprised. “How do you know?” 

“I was with Sevari, before our convoy was attacked the other Ministry Agents spoke of him.” He said, a bit nervous at Mazrah’s reaction, “He was not with us, Sevari and I were the only survivors I know of from the attack. But if he still lives and still serves the Dwemer…”

His hand carefully and slowly went to his belt, his axe and knives scraping across the earth as he brought them closer. “He’s still out there.”

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart skipped a beat. “In Gilane,” Mazrah whispered, eyes wide, “the hotel, when it was attacked... they said there was a big orc, right?” It was something the survivors had told them, but Mazrah had never for a second believed that it could be her brother. The thought simply hadn’t crossed her mind. “He was in High Rock when I last kept track of him. What the fuck is he doing with the Dwemer? Why would Maul, of all people, bend the knee to a bunch of gray-skinned twats?” 

The more she spoke, the angrier Mazrah sounded. She picked up a pebble and flung it at a tree, striking it with satisfying force and dislodging some of its bark. Her mind raced as it considered everything she knew about Maulakanth, about what his motivations could be. “They must have something he wants,” she hissed and looked around the clearing, as if that would contain the answers she needed. “Fucking cunt. If he makes me fight him, after everything else he’s done, I will shit inside his throat, so help me Malacath.” 

At the thought of Maulakanth, he scanned the trees. He wasn’t expecting the Orc to be lurking between them, but the thought did nothing for his nerve. If he faced him, he thought, would he ever see Sora again? He stood, donning his belt and buckling it, sparing a glance back at the trees that lingered as he spoke, “We should get back to the others. See what’s to do.”

It took a while for the Orsimer woman to reply. “Yeah,” she said absent-mindedly before she finally looked back at Latro, seeing he was on his feet. “Yeah, alright, let’s,” Mazrah mumbled and followed his example. She squared her shoulders and unclenched her jaw. Hammerfell was behind them and so was Maulakanth, in all likelihood. She’d come back and kick his ass later.