Otho the Heretic - the road ii
The attack came in the night, and Otho died.
Death was a curious thing for a man whose soul belonged to at least ten different gods. After his flesh-pain faded and the sensation of cold steel severing his spine drifted into Oblivion, his senses were clear and sharp; he could hear whispers though no one was there, and he could feel hands on his body. Hard hands, clawed hands, sensual soft hands. Otho furrowed his nonexistent brow, and cast his thoughts and prayers outward. What was today? Not the 5th. It was raining. Boethiah?
Not my doing, priest. Your bloody hands please me still yet.
Ah. As his body reconstituted itself and his eyes awoke to the more familiar crush of meat and bone around his soul, he saw fur and heard claws scrabbling on metal. He could hear the shouts of the knight and the thief, clouded with the sound of his own bloodflow as his ears once again were. He rose.
Werewolf. Soulless. Hircine had sent Another, and expected them to fight for their new and powerful ally. Of course. Otho raised his staff, and called down the blessing of Aetherius upon the shocked, staring werewolf. “Be still, child of Hircine,” he murmured, breathing deeply the acrid sting of burnt flesh and fur. It turned with eyes full of rage, fear and confusion, and the dunmer knight gave purpose to the command with the rim of his shield. Together, Otho and his two companions watched the mighty lycan drop into unconsciousness, and blur into its - her - human form.
Some time later the Nord awoke, hands bound and re-dressed in her arming clothes. Otho smiled at her reaction; she didn’t struggle, but instead artfully allowed her hair to fall into her eyes, her bosom to heave, her bare thighs to splay, her lip to tremble. She was comely and sexual, and knew how to use those daggers as well or better than her greatsword or her claws. A fascinating ally, and unless they played the next moments carefully, a terrible or dead foe; either would be a wasted resource.
Questions were answered readily, without hesitation, an eager plea for freedom and life. She was an assassin. Hired by an unfamiliar name, come to kill the Heretic. Otho waved this information away, allowed Halkes and Grin to chew on it. His purpose was grander yet, grander than life. He looked into her eyes, into the hollow where her soul once lay.
"Can you control it?" he asked, silvered dagger at the ready.
Confusion crawled over her face, chased by Pride, the predator. “I am it.”
Otho smiled, nodded. He slashed her bonds. “Come. I expect you have questions for us as well.”
