ᴅ ᴇ ᴀ ᴛ ʜ . . .

    Supposing that this threat was empty—as they usually were—Vincialem lacked any hesitation when he submitted his stance of power. Slowly and with his eyes trained on the Mer’s own, the bow was lowered until it no longer could be proven dangerous. His gaze joined the direction of the arrow so as not to provoke any further suspicion of how seasoned an opponent he was—no innocent traveler would sport such an attentive expression.

    A smart man knew to keep even his secrets, secret.

    “ You read often, ” Vincialem commented, more so amused by the other’s extensive vocabulary rather than intimidated by it. The arrow returned to its quiver, the bow then sheathed. “ I dislike reading, as I dislike mages.

    “ So then, now that I am no longer with my bow in hand, are you going to put out that fire? ” A short nod of his head signaled to the controlled ball of flames.

    “ If not, I see no reason why I shouldn’t warm myself by your palm. ”

     “ Wouldn’t you like to do so,” Vikrolomen spat out at the distasteful comment. “ Incorrigible. I can hardly believe my ears. ” 

     The fire in his palm burned on for minutes more while he contemplated turning the man to a crisp and using his reanimated skeletal remains as added protection for the road ahead—once he set back out on it, that is—until he felt his magick weaning, and he closed his fist around the flame just as he let it desist.

     “ Consider yourself lucky. Seek refuge elsewhere, lest you find yourself in a state of ashes at my feet. ” 

     Vikrolomen refused to turn his back on the archer; one false move and he could find an arrow stuck through his heart. Instead, he took a seat on the cold log he had dragged out in front of the fire facing the man, and tore the hood and the rest of his heavy cloak from his form, tossing it into the tent. 

     A man’s skin would crawl. His eyelids would raise and his heartbeat would mimic that of a drum whilst his blood ran cold. Ages had passed since those feelings of fear were familiar to Vincialem. It was crucial that he focus on confronting the enemy; any attempts at escaping would be futile considering that his current physical condition was poor, his knowledge of the terrain was minimal, and the hostile voice on the other side of the tree belonged to one skilled at attacking from a distance.

     Emerging from behind this shield was done so with caution as well as a nocked arrow. Despite his calm expression, Vincialem’s shoulders were tensed and his feet were planted firmly. The bow waited for its release; the enemy would give the word.

       “ I assure you that there is no need to be concerned. I was lost before I happened upon your tent. ”

     Vincialem scanned the taller body before him, unable to identify the species which he belonged to. Distinct jaw and slender in facial features, yet…

     His eyes returned to the other’s smaller, darkened orbs, thoughts interrupted once he began to speak.

     A pause before the necromancer did indeed interrupt the other’s thoughts: “ I don’t detect a lie in the latter sentence, but the implication that there is no need to be concerned is quite the joke. Do you value yourself as a jester, boy? ”

    The sharp point of the arrow aimed directly at the man spoke wonders to the danger of the situation. The Bosmeri intruder was armed, and clearly knew his way around a bow if his aim was any indication.

    Vikrolomen deposited his frost-ridden basket inside of the tent, keeping his front turned to face the other Mer so as not to give him the chance of escape. In the meantime, the mage was thinking . . .

    What shall I do with him? 

    Once his hand was entirely free of the basket, it sprung forward lithely in its speed and filled with a raging ball fire. The flames licked at Vikrolomen’s long, thin fingers, unaffected by the wind.

The Thin Executioner

He found himself in a large, squalid room. 

The bar sat at one end where a group of men and women stood, chattering and flirting unabashedly whilst a few lone outliers drank from grimy mugs. Tables were round and set in rows around the middle of the room, a freshly slain pig and a few dead ground game strewn across them.

Vikrolomen pushed his hood down, his dark hair falling forward as he took a seat at one of the more secluded tables and called for a drink. The shadowed corner it was placed in seemed more like home to the mage than the well-lit center around the fire, though he could admit—only to himself—that he wondered what the other patrons were conversing about on the other end of the small tavern.

     Inspection of the tent was as draining as it was quick, and with bread in hand Vincialem soon sat on the rotting bark and enjoyed the warmth that it granted him. Finally. The bread—offered out to the open flames for several minutes—was peeled apart and eaten by the famished elf within mere seconds.

     Vincialem’s meal distracted him from further consideration of this rather fortunate turn of events. It wasn’t until he had finished eating that the tips of his ears flicked, alerting him to the presence of another nearby. His hearing was not only sensitive by birth, but also trained much for his own benefit. The comfortable spot was abandoned for a safer position behind the thick trunk of a tree. Here, Vincialem waited for the mage to return.

     Experience as a thief had little to do with his observatory skills. Being raised in such a place as Skyrim was the true reason; one must always know his enemy, and the enemy could be anyone. A tent stocked with herbs, potions, and the like was a dead giveaway as to what the owner was fond of. Were the Divines at all merciful, they would have prevented his fate from mixing with that of one he despised.

Likewise, Vikrolomen was on guard upon returning to his lodgings. Though his sense of hearing was lesser than some of his fellow Mer such as the thief, he couldn’t claim to be unintuitive in any way. A feeling of unease seated itself deep in his gut as he approached the camp and found a few small differences immediately.

Bending at the hip to further inspect a fading set of prints in the snow, he followed what was left of them to the crackling fire heating a few feet in every direction . . . and from there they stopped, though Vikrolomen supposed it was snowing heavily enough that he was lucky to find the few tracks he did.

The mage stood tall, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. He remained outwardly calm while gathering himself until he felt the magic surging through his palm and down to his fingertips, burning ever so slightly underneath his skin. He ignored the feeling as it wasn’t alarming or unusual.

     Instinct guided Vincialem deeper into the woods; it was as if an invisible force beckoned him. Though the woods buffeted much of the wind and snow, he doubted that he would ever escape the unrelenting weather the north had seemingly prepared for him.

     He was unhappy knowing that the snowfall hid his tracks. In this particular situation, the elf would mind less for a Frost Troll to tear him limb from limb than to suffer the slow, numbing death that coldness brought.

     With a mind growing more and more at ease with living nightmares that had troubled him for over the entirety of past dawns, he stumbled upon fire. In fact, Vincialem stumbled nearly into the fire that lay before him, neatly encompassed by moderately-sized rocks and an old, rotting tree that could easily serve as a place to sit. As one would expect, only feet beyond the fire lay a tent.

     The temptation to sit and enjoy the heat exuding from those flames was as great as it was deadly. This tent would need to be thoroughly checked beforehand, and even then the fire would not be enjoyed in peace. After all, the owner had yet to return.

     While the owner in question was nowhere to be found in the surrounding distance of the campsite, Vikrolomen was making quick work of the journey. The promise of the fur-cloaked pallet inside of the tent was beginning to seem not only satisfying, but beatific in its comfort. 

    Let the snow pelt the world without, he thought, for I will be just fine within.

    He pulled the thick, dark wool of his hood past his brow. His arms crossed over each other for warmth, and he tucked his hands into the tight spaces between his chest and the crooks of his elbows. 

    After what was an hour and seemed like two, the snow was sticking to the strands of his hair that were blown back by the biting wind, the eyelashes exposed still despite the protection of his hood, and the likely ruined contents of his basket full of alchemical herbs clutched in one hand. 

     Days had been spent traveling the forsaken landscape of the far northern borders of Skyrim. Time and time again Vincialem’s knowledge had steered him far from the many dangers of a journey by oneself, yet the thief’s usual confidence had faltered and left him turning in circles, curious of the direction of east and west.

     At this rate, death was evident. The last of his body heat was ebbing, clothes dampened from melted snow but decorated with other fat flakes nonetheless. They continued to fall in a manner not only meant to slow the elf down in his tracks, but to blind him as well. A majority of his travel toward Dawnstar had been in the open stretch, excluded from the cover of the forest with the assumption that a populated area—such as a village or tavern—would soon appear and grant him the safety he so desperately needed. Seeing that this was no longer a feasible option, Vincialem took to the trees.

     On weakening legs, he walked on.

     White. 

     Blistering, bone-chilling cold and white were all Vikrolomen had seen for days on end since he had set out to find a supposed patch of Hag’s Taper near Dawnstar. He had arrived only to find the crop beaten dead to the ground by the winter storm only days before, and after taking lodging and supper in an inn for the night he had decided to rough the rest of the way back.

    Your average village folk would choose to camp close to the tree-line, but the mage could be called paranoid. As a result, his thick leather tent and all the potential spoils—should they get into the hands of a thief—sat deep in the forest, overlooking a small body of crystalline, icy water from atop a short cliff.

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