Volpe smells the blood from a mile away.     She knows the tribe that dwells in the mountains behind Falkreath- small stronghold, all but a dozen people inside. It would be busy this time of day, in the beginning of morning, their children would squeal as they dip in the cold bathwater, their blacksmith would be stroking the fire in the early haze of dawn, their animals would be loud and demanding with their hunger- but there is nothing as she climbs up the narrow mountain path. No sound of a door creaking open for the first time today, no busy footsteps, no morning chatter.    There is nothing but deafening silence and a thick smell of blood.     The ground is damp under the gates of the stronghold, black liquid oozing from the other side of it, trickling down the steep road, slowly at first and then building up, like the dread in Volpe’s stomach.     She yells a question- by the gods, what happened?- and bangs on the gate, yelling still- can anyone hear her?     No answer comes.     She slams her wide shoulder against the thick oaken gate, once, twice, and hears it crack- when it does, she kicks her heavy boot into it, and it splinters and creaks, granting sight to the horror inside.     All of them lie dead. Slaughtered, like cattle.     Their bodies are scattered around, some still clutching weapons, some on their stomach, their backs littered with stabs. Even those of them who were not warriors- their wise-woman, their young blacksmith, the chief's hearth-wife, by the gods, where are the children- have died fighting, it's in the glint of anger that had frozen into their eyes and the fierce expressions that taint their stiff faces. Their life’s blood has seeped into the ground, Volpe’s boots stick into the heavy black mud that it has created, nearly slipping as she stumbles inside.     The small mountain stronghold has become a battleground. A mass grave.     Who’d cut them down like this? For what? On what power’s will?     Volpe stands there, inhaling the scent of blood still, lungs full of death, thoughts filled with cold terror, and her chest overflowing with grief. She does not move for minutes that seem like hours, eyes soaking in the sight that her head cannot quite comprehend.     What snaps her out of her terrible trance is, to both her horror and delight, the cry of an infant.     It comes from the longhouse. She just now sees the chief's body, her wide back braced against the door of it, protecting it even in death.     Volpe lifts her body softly, and lies it to the side, not having the heart to move her from her eternal post just yet. The door is unlocked, it creaks gently as she pushes against it, dragging a line of blood on the floor as it opens wide. Hearing that, the infant now wails louder- it knows someone is inside, and it calls out, the naive thing. Volpe thinks about what would have happened to it if it was so loud while blood was still being spilled outside, but she quickly realizes that she doesn't want to know.     She can see the babe's mother from the doorway. She, too, lies dead, a wide gash running across her middle, her body curled up around the child- she bled out, from the looks of it. Volpe removes her stiff arms from the infant, as gently as she can, her heart nearly splitting in half at the thought that she is untangling the child from it's mother's last embrace.     She takes it in her own arms instead, cradling it against her chest as if it was her own. The infant had stopped wailing, now it's merely staring up at Volpe with it's huge, gentle blue eyes, it's round cheeks still flushed from crying. She runs her thumb across it's tiny face, wiping down the blood and the tears that had stuck to it, and the child's little mouth parts in a laugh.     Volpe smiles with it, albeit with pain on her face.     There is a little wooden medallion hanging from the babe's neck- the sort that orsimer children receive on their naming ceremonies. It's carved elegantly, tremendous care showing in the tiny details, even though the thing is barely bigger than Volpe's thumb.     It reads "Narga".     A girl's name.     "And what a pretty name it is, isn't it?" she asks the little one, her voice hushed, lest it breaks.     The child, again, laughs, the sound jingling through the dead silence of the longhouse.     "You're lucky that we ran into each other, Narga."

     He sat crosslegged in front of it, just next to the dying campfire they had set up a few hours ago. It was all but embers now, the glow of it slowly suffocating, the last of its heat hungrily swallowed by the night's cold. Not that it was needed anymore- the rest of their party was asleep by now, it was only Atsvara that was still awake washing his face.     Him, and Kragor watching him. He knew the other man had been looking, saw his reflection glancing over at him again and again, the aurora's glow casting a deep shadow over his silhouette . The man stood with his back against an old pine, his body turned towards the road- he was supposedly staying up to guard the camp, like he always did when they had to stop for the night. He never slept when the rest of them did. At this point, Atsvara wondered if he ever slept at all.     He dipped his hand into the water one last time- Kragor watched his fingers disappear under the surface, watched how the drops roll down his hands and his thin wrists, watched the water glisten on the young man's high cheekbones and the arch of his lips. Watched him reach for a piece of cloth, watched him dry his hands and face, watched him wipe down the stray drops of water from his neck.     "Won't you come sleep?" Atsvara asked once he was done, his voice soft and hushed, as to not wake the others.     Kragor watched him until then, and turned his head away when he was spoken to.     "No."     "Why not?" he looks at him now, lifting his eyes from the reflection in the water.     "We're on a dangerous road," Kragor says, even though he doesn't know this, doesn't even suspect it- still, he'd never been told that it is a *safe* road. As far as he's concerned, he isn't lying to his companion.     "Never heard that it would be," Atsvara chimes. "You could come sleep, really. No need for a nightwatch."     "It's not a nightwatch, then. I just like staying up to look at the aurora."     "You're not funny, old man. Rest."     The orc scoffs.     "Why so concerned?"     "Because you haven't been sleeping enough. You must be tired. Aren't you tired, Kragor?"     He is tired, truth be told. Has been tired for a long while now.     "I am," he says, sounding almost as if he had just realized it himself. "But just one night's rest won't fix that. Might as well stand guard, then."     "Have you tried?" Atsvara asks, his tone hiding some humour for a second. "When's the last time you've slept through the night?"     "Come now, it'll just be depressing if I answer that," Kragor jokes weakly, then adds, for good measure, "None of your concern, either."     "It is," Atsvara snaps back, clearly not intending to elaborate. "Come, lay down. If it truly is such a dangerous path, I'll stand guard."     Kragor looks at him again, and eyes him for a few seconds. The young man had talked him into quite a predicament- he either admits that he cares whether or not Atsvara gets enough sleep himself, or he agrees to rest as suggested. Either way, the bastard wins.     Should have never agreed to let him tag along, he thinks to himself, but he moves from his post, deciding that the less degrading of the two ordeals is to agree to Atsvara's whims.     "Since you're so persistent about it," he grunts as he takes a few heavy steps through the snow, attempting to undo his cape. "But don't come crying to me when you wake with a blade at your throat, little elf."     "Is that a threat?" Atsvara asks, but his voice is playful and there's a smile on his face, knowing that he'd won.     "We'll see."       He has trouble undoing the clasp, and Atsvara knows this- Kragor absentmindedly told him that his hands and his fingers both had been broken quite a few times, and healed slightly wrong most of the time. He told him that now they'd ache and refuse to move right when it got too cold. Atsvara assumed that the man thought he wouldn't remember this, but he did, and it was his first thought as he watched him struggle with the clasp on his cape in this freezing weather.     "Let me help," he says, stepping to him quick enough that Kragor doesn't have time to deny his request.     For a brief moment, he wonders if Atsvara remembered, then decides it was an accident. He'd only mentioned it for half a sentence, after all. How could he remember?     He holds his breath when the elf is too close, his hands all the way up at his neck, a finger brushing against his neck once as the clasp of his cape comes undone- as the young man moves away, Kragor briefly catches the scent of the soap he'd washed his face with. His stomach is in a knot, and he decides it is because he hates the smell of it.     That same scent is on the spare blankets Atsvara lends him, and it lingers on his clothes for the next few days, too. He doesn't know what to make of the knot it puts in his stomach, or the odd longing he begins to feel when it wears off.     Like most times, he decides that he will think nothing of it.