Chapter Twenty Six

The moon cast pale light across the plains of Whiterun. Stars twinkled from their far off homes in the royal void. Near the Valtheim Towers, a small campfire flickered. Inigo tended the flames, his stomach growling at the smell of the rabbit stew.

“By the gods,  I’m hungry! That smells delightful.” He peeked inside the pot with covetous eyes. 

Gaeolin smirked at his friend, shying away from the crackle of the fire. It unnerved him, knowing that he would burn as quickly as the kindling now. “Well, it’s all yours. I’m not hungry at the moment.” 

Inigo looked unconvinced. “Really? When did you last feed? It’s been quite some time since your diet change. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed you feed.”

“I try to be discreet.”

“You’re starving…”

“I am not.” Gaeolin huffed with indignation. “I just don’t see the need in overeating.” 

“Is that so?” Inigo reached over, grabbing Dawnbreaker from the ground. After a moment’s hesitation, he drew the blade a short distance from the Scabbard.

Gaeolin cried out in alarm when the light reached him. He scurried to a place of safety, crouching behind a stone nearby. “What was that for?!”

“For thinking you can lie to me. Your light sensitivity is worse,  and you look like death. You need fresh blood.”

“No.” The elf looked away. “I can’t…” He could taste the vomit at the back of his throat. It had been bad enough to drain the wolf they had killed on the road. The thought of killing for blood…

“You know,” Inigo began, “if you were to find yourself in need, and we fight a bandit or two, I don’t think it would be a big deal if you were to help yourself.”

“But…”

“We’re just going to kill them anyway. You might as well get some benefit from it.”

The elf nodded, taking a drink from his waterskin. He could easily ignore it. He’d gone longer than this without water and food.  He was about to comment on his friends cooking when he heard movement up the road. 

He jumped up, moving in complete silence to a pair of boulders that obscured the thoroughfare. Despite the dark, he could clearly see the bandits. There were four, all clad in stained Whiterun heraldry. They were drinking, laughing as they boasted to one another. 

“A fine hammer, that bloke had.” Drawled the man at front. “Shame he couldn’t use it right.”

“You fought dirty,” a Nord woman quipped, “he only dropped it cause you threw stones at his face.”

The man, a squat Imperial, scoffed at her remark. “I fight however suits me. I’m alive, that suits me.”

“And we got the gold.” A pair of identical young men walked at the rear of the group. Each bore a large sack on his shoulder,  clinking with the coins they spoke of. “Jarl might be missing a bit this season.” The second of the brothers seemed less pleased by their spoils.

“At least now we can be done with all this. Father would have skinned us for stealing..” 

“Your daddy died as poor as the dirt he plowed.” The leader spat. “You boys were lucky I found you and showed you how to make a living.”

“Some living, Talus…” The lad muttered. His brother swung his bag around, hitting his sibling in the back.

“Shut up, Geirsten! I swear, Julianos put more sense in a mudcrab than in your skull.” He shook his head in disapproval.  “We keep up like this, we could buy a house in any city we want and fill it with Dibellan Priestesses. I’m not gonna let pa’s morals spoil my chances.”

Talus smirked at his protege when something caught his eye. A traveler stood before them, hooded against the night air, face obscured. He stopped in their path. Talus laughed, gesturing with his axe. “Look! They come to us now. Come, give us your gold, or we’ll take it our way.”

The bandits watched the traveler. He was still as a mill pond. The cloak around his shoulders swayed in the mountain breeze. Geirsten and his brother looked to each other, unsure why this fool did not run. “What’s the matter? Are you deaf and dumb?” Talus’ face twitched when no response came. He took a single step forward. 

Inigo leapt up from his place by the fire, drawing his ebony blade at the sound of fighting up the hill. Screams echoed, though no sounds of weapons met the ears. As he reached the road, he stopped, lowering his guard. Gaeolin stood amid three corpses. Each had their throats torn out, blood pooling and running down the hill. The wood elf was panting, a trickle of red on his chin. His clothes were stained. He drew his tongue over his teeth as if savoring the taste. Inigo watched as his friend’s features grew more youthful. Gaeolin opened his eyes, turning to the Khajiit. 

“Feeling better?” Inigo asked.

“A bit…” He admitted. “The imperial tasted gross.”

“Well, I can’t say I would expect a smelly bandit to be appetizing. Let’s get back to camp. You should probably change…”

They left the bodies, heading back down the slope to the flicker of their camp. All was quiet in the night. Geirsten huddled in terror behind a pair of great stones. Hearing the beast had left, he abandoned his hiding place. He grew sick at the sight of his brother’s mutilated remains. He turned, stumbling over Talus and Friea as he made for the western sky. 

He would never forget those red eyes, blood still on the creature’s maw when it turned and whispered.

“Run.”