Cycle of the Serpent

The lonesome figure of a ramshackle cabin pricked its fingers up from the grasses along the hillside, night shrouding its full shape. Wolves howled in the near-distance, and the trio picked up the pace as they headed for the little cabin. The holes in the roof and cracks in the walls bit away every hope of a person who could host them for a night or give them directions, but the grasses and soft ground outside ignited plans for a small camp. The well-tended garden caught Wyndrelis' eye, with cabbages and leeks growing happily in the dirt, but he didn't mention it to his companions, whose shoulders slumped and drooped with the weariness that soon clogged all their other thoughts.

"We should build a fire," Emeros instructed as he set off to find proper kindling, "if we're going to camp out here, we should keep warm. I highly doubt this shack is going to keep out the cold."

Wyndrelis watched the Bosmer nervously for a moment, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Still, he ignored it. He turned his attentions to Athenath, leaned against one of the walls, their knapsack sagging with the stone he'd brought out of the barrow. "Why don't we just get back to Riverwood?" The bard asked, barely concealed fatigue at the edge of his voice.

"Because it's a long walk, and I don't know about you, but I'm at my limit with travel today," The tinge of resignation Emeros' voice caught against his teeth, a snapped edge to his words that left no room for argument. Athenath rolled their eyes, pushed himself from the cabin wall, and started his own search for things to build the campfire. Wyndrelis stood there in the doorway to the cabin, spying an empty chair near the door, the prickling on the back of his neck stronger. Something wasn't right, and someone most definitely lived here. But who would? It looked perfectly abandoned. Still, there was a bed right there, and fresh herbs, were the other two ignoring this intentionally, or were they both so tired they couldn't be bothered to care? Yes, he wanted to sleep. He wanted nothing more than a warm meal and soft bed, and to put this sword away that he'd dragged from the depths of that place. But the price he'd pay in Riverwood was some gold. The price for staying in this shack, he worried, would be much worse than just a few septims.

He settled on the idea that, even if he told the other two about the nagging in his neck, they probably wouldn't listen. Who would in this state? Covered in bruises and with magic-mended injuries still fresh in their minds and half-soaked to the bone around their legs, who could bear to give a shit?

"Hey, help me out?"

Athenath's voice rattled him from his thoughts. "Hm?" He slid his knapsack off his back, the enchanted greatsword going with it, leaning them against the chair outside the doorway. The Altmer lined up a few rocks to contain the little campfire, a few feet from the cabin. Far enough that they wouldn't block the doorway or set it on fire, close enough that if rain hit, they had somewhere to run. They'd gathered a decent pile of stones in the time Wyndrelis spent standing still, captivated by his own doubts. The mage silently lowered himself into the grass, the bard nudging a handful of rocks his way. A few feet from the pair, Emeros gathered kindling, taking pains to be sure everything was just-so.

"You think the road to Whiterun's gonna be so easy?" Athenath joked with a wink. Wyndrelis shrugged in response. The bard picked another stone and lined it up tight with the others. "Well, y'know. It'll be fine, I think."

"You... Do?" He tried to shield the confusion that filtered through his voice.

"Yeah, why not? It can't be that far if Hadvar told us to just follow the shadow of a building, must mean it's close enough we can see it from the road. So, not a long journey. Then we can go do whatever we came here for. I'll go to Solitude, you'll head to Winterhold, and he," they jerked a thumb Emeros' direction, "will head to Windhelm."

The idea of splitting up bashed against his head like a pot. Right. Of course. They all had their own destinations.

Emeros briskly returned to the group, his long-fingered hands clutched around the kindling. It made for a sturdy campfire, the Bosmer rapidly twisting a stick between his hands until the first sparks ignited, blowing against the embers, flames growing until it could properly warm the group. He unlaced and tugged off his boots and socks and placed them neatly near the fire to dry.

"You could have asked," Wyndrelis joked in a murmur, grin creeping up his features, Emeros rubbed at the back of his neck and cocked a brow at the Dunmer.

"What are you talking about?"

Wyndrelis gestured to himself.

"Ah. Magic."

"Yes." He clicked his tongue against his teeth. Athenath burst out a laugh, circles under his round eyes much more obvious now as he sat, hands fumbling for wrapped provisions. The other two rushed to get their own provisions from their bags. The way back to Riverwood was probably much shorter than they expected, but how could they know? They couldn't see the town through the trees or from the shack, so preserving most of their supplies would be the best idea, each Mer settling on a small meal that barely dug into what they'd purchased from Lucan.

The meal lifted their spirits significantly, the dread that launched itself to the forefront of Wyndrelis' psyche now content to rest down in the basement of it, if only for now. Emeros cracked a couple of jokes, managed in his dry manner. They drank from their waterskins and tried to keep the air light, but the curved wall from the barrow permeated their thoughts. It clung to Wyndrelis like claws. The drumming he couldn't shut out. The chants that danced through his mind, as if it had always been there. The wall itself disturbed him greatly. What was with the glowing?

He shuffled his attention to the sword he'd dragged out from the ruins. The Dunmer knew plenty of enchantments, so there was no use destroying this greatsword to study it. Instead, the item itself and its construction is what intrigued him. He'd strapped it to his back with no hesitation. This may not have been the smartest move to make, looking back. What if it were cursed? He shrugged the thought away. If it were, he'd know by now.

Still, the presence of the artifact gnawed at him. The Nords resented magic. In ancient times, he'd read that they'd been apt at it, but over the centuries - and due to their long wars with the Snow Elves - they'd gradually stigmatized it among their own, shirked it off, and decided it was a danger that brought only misfortune. The recent war only increased this sentiment. Wyndrelis would have found it comical to turn one's nose up at such a gift, if he'd not seen how magic can go awry, and remembering his family back in Cyrodiil, decided not to laugh.

Torchbugs swayed in the air a few feet from the camp. The night swelled with the song of the insects and distant animals and the callings of nightbirds. Emeros looked into the cabin, then to Wyndrelis. The nervous kneading at the back of the mage's nerves intensified. Trying to explain exactly why this place set him on edge would be a fruitless effort, and he didn't expect anyone to listen to him, anyways. The place was entirely abandoned by the looks of it, with a caved-in roof and holes in the walls. It was probably a good thing the trio had decided to camp outside of it, rather than crossing the threshold. What if the roof fell in on them while they slept? He shivered at the thought, or maybe the wind coming off of the river caught him at the right angle. Whichever caused it, the mage tugged open his pack, and placed the new soul gems carefully inside.

"Now, should one of us take watch?" Emeros half-joked wearily. Wyndrelis snorted and looked around, staring up into the night sky. Athenath worked to tug off his own boots before he lined them up at the fire, Wyndrelis repeating the motion. In the morning, they'd have dry shoes to make the trek back to Riverwood with.

"I will. You two get some sleep."

"Are you certain of that? You look half ready to fall asleep, yourself," the alchemist retorted, brow arched, elbow resting over a raised knee. Wyndrelis shook his head and laid back into the grass, the moons reflected in the circular lenses of his glasses.

"I'll be fine."

Athenath pulled their cloak from their knapsack, Emeros retrieving his cowl. It may not cover much of him, but at least he could slide it over his shoulders and upper arms for a bit of warmth. The bard fluttered the cloak a few times before he let it settle down on top of them, turning his back to the fire.

"Wake me in an hour," Emeros instructed, before laying down in the grasses and closing his eyes. Wyndrelis gave a nod the Bosmer didn't see, and turned his attention back to the sky.

He could faintly make out some of the constellations above his head, silvery stars blinking down at him. The moons mosied in a slow path across the night sky. When he was younger, his older siblings had told him about the moons. How important they were, these ancestor spirits of Mundus. Even if he wasn't sure he cared much for the idea of spirits looking down at him in the dead of night, a fondness still buried itself under his floorboards for the old legends he'd grown up on. The faintest glimpses of Morrowind, the place his family had fled generations before his birth.

He looked down at the silvery buckle of his belt, the ornate star. He looked back to the heavens, and once he was sure his friends were asleep, he moved his attention to the beckoning threshold a few feet from the campsite. The minutes ambled slowly, slower even, the more the pull of curiosity dragged him near. Sparing one last look at his companions, Wyndrelis rose from the grass, dusting himself off as he peered into the dark shack. The light split itself inside against the jagged holes in the wooden building. He picked up his mace and toed his way inside, grey hand finding the worn, wooden doorframe.

The fresh herbs had been laid about carefully. The books that lined the shelves, despite their age, seemed fairly well-cared for. Wyndrelis knit his brow, bright eyes darting around the room. He slipped into the shack quickly, examining the walls. There had to be something more to this place. Something was wrong, he could feel it, and he didn't want to drag his companions into any more trouble today. Sure, it wasn't his fault that Bleak Falls Barrow had been such a harrowing experience, but the idea of asking for the other two's help when they were clearly well worn out sounded like a terrible thing to do to them.

He looked along the bed, the sheets freshly washed by the lack of dust. Rickety-framed, but clearly slept in not too long ago. The mage knelt on the floor and squinted into the dark, spying a wooden indent. He fumbled a hand on the surface until his fingers traced cold metal, a handle. His eyes widening, he rose and pushed the bed upwards, grunting under his breath as he set it on its side. He'd rearrange the pillows and blankets when he got back. It'd be fine, right?

The ladder creaked and groaned under him as he lowered himself into the cellar. His hands clung to the sides, and he almost worried about the chance of splinters. Once his feet hit the ground, he spun on his heel, jolting at the sight.

Alchemy station, recently used based on the fresh ingredients laid about. Enchantment table stocked with plenty of soul gems. His eyes darted around, catching each detail and cataloguing it in his mind. The floors were recently swept, the stone surfaces clear of dust. The letter on one of the tables grabbed his attention further. Wyndrelis inched his way to it, as if worried that he was somehow alerting some invisible force to his presence just by breathing in the cool cellar air. He peered down at the writing, curled and sharp all at the same time, not daring to pick it up but bending his middle to get close enough to read it properly.

'Helgi, dear, why do you hesitate? You can feel the power coursing through your blood! You have only to reach out and grasp it! Renounce that boy of yours and come, come live with me in the forest. My sister will be here soon. Together, we can form a proper coven, and your training will truly begin.'

Oh, gods.

Wyndrelis gave quick, hard glances to the room. Of course. This was a witches cabin. He backed from the letter and to the ladder, climbing his way back out of the cellar as carefully as he could manage, his mace swinging along its place on his belt, knocking against the wooden rails. He carried himself from the dark and shut the trap door, moving the bed back into place. He took great pains to adjust the blankets and pillows back to where he remembered them laying. A little tug here, turn over a corner there, press down the center of the pillow just right...

He sat down in the grass near the fire, stoking it with the end of the greatsword. He inhaled the night air and tried to avoid the smoke stinging his eyes, but it was futile. The winds of the hillside liked to send it right into his face. The Dunmer's attention searched for the other two sleeping near the fire, Athenath tucked under the red cloak that barely went down to their shins, Emeros curled into the fabric of his cowl, wrapped around his shoulders and arms like a shawl. They'd get much better sleep tonight than he would.

The bridge carried them back into town, morning light glimmering on its surface, skating the banks of the river as the daily duties of Riverwood's residents swung into motion. Hopefully, they still had a room at the Sleeping Giant. Athenath tugged their knapsack tighter, loose bits of grass tugged out by their fingers. Emeros held his head high as he walked. The night's rest did him plenty of good, lips even bearing a slight upward turn.

The cellar still propped itself up in Wyndrelis' mind, shaken like a fist. That cabin belonged to a witch. Fair enough, he figured. It explained the herbs and alchemical ingredients scattered about. But he didn't know if this witch was one he should be worried about, or someone who preferred to be left alone. He'd encountered plenty of witches in his time, even studied with a few when he was able, picking up on their techniques in absence of formal training from any more official routes. But some of them were more protective of their spaces than others, and much more secretive, and far less understanding.

The door swung open to the room they re-rented from the Sleeping Giant, the trio grateful for the sight of it, untouched since they'd left. Athenath spun on their heel and plopped down on the bed dramatically, spreading out their arms. "Gods, I thought I was a goner there for a second." Despite the attempt to make it sound like a joke, worry edged at the tone of his voice, catching Wyndrelis off-guard.

"Do you think we'd just let you die in there?" Emeros questioned as he seated himself at the small table along the wall. Athenath sat up, combing fingers through their long hair with a hefty shrug of the shoulders.

"We barely know one another. I mean, not to sound like the past two days haven't been pretty impactful, but come on, we're still practically strangers, so..." They trailed off, as though worried he was digging himself into a hole. Wyndrelis chuckled and shook his head as he took the chair across from Emeros, glad to have his knapsack and new sword off his back and a warm room in an inn, with a real bed.

"He has a point," he stated, "we've only known each other a grand total of thirty-six hours, if I'm counting them correctly."

Emeros hesitated, then rubbed his temples in slow motions as he tried to soothe the memories of the barrow and of Helgen from creeping back into focus. It was a look Wyndrelis understood, and from the Altmer's slight slump of the shoulders, so did they. Emeros looked up again, breaking the silence. "And," he sputtered, "what was with that- that wall, anyways? I've never seen anything like it! Glowing, and chanting, and-"

Wyndrelis interjected sharply, "I think it's best we keep something like that to ourselves, wouldn't you say, Emeros? The Nords are superstitious people, I don't know if it'd be wise to go around asking everyone we see about a glowing wall covered in unfamiliar scripts."

"Agreed." Athenath reached into their knapsack and picked up the strange stone, examining it closer in the light. "And besides, what's with this thing?"

The Dunmer grinned and seized the opportunity. "We should take it to Winterhold, have the mages at the College examine it." Emeros gave a light-hearted roll of his eyes at the comment, resting his jaw against a curled fist. The engravings depicted mountains inside the pentagonal shape of the stone, but none of the group could make heads or tails of what it meant. Lines glittered and shone in shapes that only appeared in the light, with many of them connecting at various points along it.

"Are we shirking our promise to Alvor and Hadvar, then?" Emeros half-droned.

The other two grimaced. Right, they had nearly forgotten that.

The Bosmer spoke up again. "Besides, aren't you two forgetting something?" The other two knit their brows and exchanged looks. "The claw?"

"Oh!" Athenath stuffed the stone into their knapsack, tugging the golden claw from the garnet bag's depths. They turned it in his hands, examining the gleam of the item in the light. Wyndrelis watched the shifting, minute expressions across the Altmer's face, tapping his shoulder with one slim, grey finger.

"Come on, let's go."

"Lucan!" The Altmer called, the Imperial readjusting some potions on a higher shelf, pushing tundra cotton bundles back into place. At the sight of the gleaming object, his dark eyes widened, face illuminated by his sprawling smile.

"The claw! You found it!" He exclaimed. Athenath handed it over, Lucan cupping the heavy object as though it were light as a child's doll. "There it is! Strange... It seems smaller than I remembered, funny thing, huh?" He held it in his palms before he looked to the counter, barely taking his eyes off it for a moment, weariness melted off his face like a wax mask. "I'm going to put this back where it belongs, I'll- I'll never forget this, you've done a great thing for me and my sister," he spoke, underlining his words as he waved his pointer finger. He set it down on the wooden surface, his eyes shining in the daylight and the flickering hearth.

"It was our pleasure." Emeros paused, watching Lucan as he adjusted its position, then cleared his throat, "not to sound ungrateful, as the return of the item is certainly the reward itself, but..."

"Oh, right, your reward," Lucan turned back around, looking for something on a lower shelf behind the counter, humming idly as he did so. After a few moments, he rose and plopped a coinpurse down on the well-polished surface. "Here you go, your reward, as promised. I should really get back to cleaning the shop, but truly, thank you." He smiled broadly as Wyndrelis plucked up the coinpurse, clutching it in one tense palm.

"We're glad to hear it." Wyndrelis adjusted his glasses, Athenath turning for the door, eager to head back to the inn and spend the day recuperating for the journey to Whiterun.

"Four hundred gold?!" The Altmer exclaimed once the three had finished counting. Wyndrelis and Emeros, in unison, placed a finger over their own lips, making a shushing noise. "Sorry," Athenath whispered, "four hundred gold?" They asked in the same whisper. Emeros nodded curtly, double checking his own pile of coins he'd been sorting.

"Correct," Wyndrelis affirmed, "which would amount to around one-hundred-thirty-three septims, per person."

Emeros snapped his gaze up to Wyndrelis, incredulous. "How do you know that?"

"It's a simple calculation," the Dunmer began to scoop the coins back into the coinpurse, "however, I don't foresee us splitting up in Whiterun, at least not yet, so there's plenty of time for us to split more gold later."

"Sounds good to me." Athenath scooped up the pile he'd been sorting, pouring the coins into the purse.

Emeros finally joined in the process of refilling the purse, and soon, it was tucked safely in Wyndrelis' bag, "if he's this good with calculations, I vote we let him handle our earnings. All in favor?"

Athenath's hand shot up as they laughed, "I'm fucking horrible with math."

"Maths," Emeros corrected.

"Shit, there's more?" They jabbed sarcastically, a wide smirk on his lips. Emeros rolled his eyes, placing the last of the coins together into the purse and tugging it tightly shut. Wyndrelis made room for it in his knapsack, careful that it would be somewhere he could access easily.

Wyndrelis looked to the Bosmer, the man's pragmatic appearance not escaping his mental notes on the other two. Brown trousers of a sturdy material tucked into leather boots. A Colovian style, hickory brown belt wrapped around his midsection, fastened with leather and glimmering gold metal over his pale tunic and dark green, vest-like garment. He wore his cowl more often than not as a scarf at the moment, the weather not demanding him to pull it up, the fabric fastened to his form with a hollow, circular golden pin. Emeros seemed the type to be prepared for anything, his only finery the golden earrings that hung from his high-arched ears, slightly higher than average for a Bosmer, his stature certainly taller than the average, as well. He stood always with a steadiness to him, and even when resting as he did right now in the chair across from Wyndrelis, he carried a level of alertness the other two didn't possess, drinking in his surroundings with a focus.

Emeros sat, leaned back in his chair, quietly mulling something over before a breathy chuckle left his lips with a shake of his head.

"I'm just glad we're not traveling during the Great War. Horrible time to be on the road, that was."

"Really?" Wyndrelis arched a brow as he shut his bag and set it under his seat. "I wasn't traveling then."

"You weren't?" The Dunmer shook his head again as Emeros leaned back in his chair, an arm slung over the back. "What were you doing during that time?"

"I was still at home, working on my studies." Wyndrelis waved the admission away with an absent hand.

"Gods, it was a mess. Every opportunistic bandit in all of Tamriel set upon some of those truly isolated roads. Not to mention, having to skirt battlefields and navigate around all of that... Well, I'm just glad that whole affair is done with." After a long pause, all eyes landed on Athenath, who shrunk back. "What were you doing during the Great War? Gallavanting about with your tambourine?" He teased, light-hearted in his tone.

Athenath sat there, quiet. "Well, no, not exactly."

The Altmer sat on the bed, the shaggy cut of their hair more apparent now that it was no longer neatly combed, curls running past their shoulders. His dark eyes were round and curious, but now, they tried not to look directly in the faces of either of his companions, flitting between the other two's hands or torsos, chin tucking to their neck. Emeros narrowed his gaze, his intrigue clearly piqued by the awkwardly mumbled statement.

"What do you mean, 'no, not exactly'?" The alchemist questioned slowly.

Athenath dragged their palms down their face, as though he'd been dreading this. Wyndrelis carefully observed as the bard heaved a loud, dramatic sigh, fiddling with a corner of their vest. He mumbled something the other two couldn't hear. "What?" Wyndrelis asked. Athenath looked up, frown creasing the edge of his lips.

"I'm twenty-four. I was born a few years after the Great War." They uttered the admission with a level of embarrassment, and Wyndrelis understood why. An elven childhood lasted about the same length as any humans, the shortest period of their lifespans and often marked with celebrations, then their lives slowed, all things eased to a stroll as they grew older. This placed Athenath squarely in adulthood, but among other Mer, a young adult was treated as naive and lacking in the knowledge of their peers. Among humans or Khajiit or Argonians, this was grown out of quickly as responsibilities and families cropped up in those years, but among Mer, this was a particularly scathing presumption, treated less like capable adults and more like overgrown children, weeds among oaks.

"What?" Emeros' eyes widened, laughter brimming in his voice as he cupped his hands over his mouth. "My gods, I figured you looked a little young, but-"

"Oh, shut up," Athenath plucked a coin from his own pocket and tossed it feebly at Emeros' shoulder, watching the glittering septim bounce off his form, the Bosmer laughing. Wyndrelis considered stepping in, but there was a humorous grin at the edge of the bard's mouth. Emeros picked the coin up off the floor, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Aw, is the infant feeling fussy?" He cooed in a mocking-sweet tone as he linked his fingers together, Wyndrelis stifling his own laughter. Athenath heaved a monumentally dramatic sigh, throwing their head against the mattress of the shared bed. Emeros chided, "none of that, now, you don't want to injure your soft spot." After the Altmer gave a strangled groan of frustration, Wyndrelis couldn't fight his urge to follow in the teasing.

"Do you need a nap?" The Dunmer managed through his own tittering. Athenath's eyes locked on him and he plucked another coin in a slow, menacing manner. Wyndrelis held up his arms in defense, prepared for the gold to be tossed his way. Athenath plopped the coin back into his pocket with a sigh.

"Come on, you don't even look much older than me. Weren't you a kid during the Great War, Wyndrelis?"

Wyndrelis ticked his tongue. "I was in my twenties."

Athenath pressed his face into their hands. The look he gave Wyndrelis through his fingers was a pouting plea for the other to help him out here, a little.

"And I was already in my thirties when it ended," Emeros tutted, "so you can do the maths on that." Punctuating with a wink, he leaned back in his chair comfortably, the bard's grin sprawling wider.

Linking their fingers together under his chin, he batted his lashes and put on a saccharine smile, coated in barely-concealed mischief. "Aw, then how was the Oblivion Crisis, pa?"

Emeros sputtered and coughed, head jerked wildly at the question. "I'm not that o-"

"Terrible, Mannimarco was a nightmare for Mages' Guild recruitments," the mage replied dryly, pushing his glasses up his straight nose. The sound of Sven tuning his lute rummaged under the door, Orgnar making a droning comment somewhere in the middle of it all. Wyndrelis stood and stretched, the sound of the Altmer's laughter having died out moments ago. "Let's have a look around town, then we can plan for tomorrow."

"Sounds good," Athenath straightened their vest as Emeros rose to his feet, "I feel like if I laid down now, I'd sleep for a week."

"Well, you have been up past your bedtime," Wyndrelis tacked on with a shit-eating grin. Athenath huffed, then pushed open the door and strode out into the inn, up to the counter, and asked Orgnar about the town itself while subtly trying to pick out the last remnants of grass from the ends of their hair.