(Solo) Under the sky

There are many who wander alone under the skies of Skyrim. Some do so because they prefer the silence of nature to the hustle and bustle of the city. Some do so for the purpose of moving quickly. Some do so due to having been cast away from their fellows.

Some do so because they have no one left. See that boy, down there, north of Fort Greymoor? See that small, pathetic fire he has, and the skeever he roasted over it. He's slight of figure, and not too tall either. Look closer...do you see the thin, long tail, black as night? Do you see the shapes of the ears underneath the hood he has on in an attempt to keep the cold out?

Do you see the tatters he is wearing, and the ribs that would show through his skin if his shirt wasn't so baggy? See the half feral, half desperate way that he goes into eating that skeever?

Then do you see the man that he knifed in the back laying not twenty feet away, wearing the armor of a bandit? The man whose throat has been split open by a nervous hand? The man whose purse has been emptied out.

Lupin looked at the dead man. He did so every few seconds, still not entirely sure that he had in fact killed the bandit. He waited for the corpse to raise back up and lurch towards him, swinging that axe on his back.

He touched the carved wooden charm around his neck, a final keepsake from a happier time. He crawled into the dead man's sleeping bag and curled up, his pack clutched close to his chest. He tried to fall asleep now, but instead he found himself looking at the large, uncaring sky, with two amber eyes that quickly shimmered with tears, before he curled into a ball, tucked the end of the sleeping bag over himself, and fell asleep.


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The next day, he left that camp. He had arrows now, for his old, wooden bow, an instrument that looked as though it would snap after a few more uses. The bandit's bow had been too large for him to handle. THe armor, likewise, was too heavy to take, and he didn't want to touch the man he had killed. But...he did close the man's eyes, and turn him over so that he was face up instead of face down.

Twenty gold pieces was a start. Maybe he could find work near one of the farms of Whiterun. Maybe he could find someone willing to take in a boy his age, even with the fur and tail. He doubted it, though. The world had not been kind to him.

More than likely he would sneak into the town, and find the inn. He would slip through a window during the wee hours of the morning and take enough food to sustain himself, and slip back out. He didn't like stealing. It didn't feel right. But he knew that the world wouldn't pull any punches on him.

Off he set, a pack slightly heavier with the bandit's arrows and sleep roll. Another traveler, under the sky.

Whiterun. City of...complete denial from the front gates. The guards were not keen on letting him in.

So when night came, and the guards changed shifts, and the walls were abandoned for a minute, Lupin frantically scaled up one, heading over, and landing on the street below. He looked back and forth, and lifted his face to the breeze. Deep breath in...the smell of cooking food. And the sound of people.

The Bannered Mare was busy tonight, and Lupin sat below the kitchen window, salivating as he breathed in the smell of fine nordic cooking. He could see the shadows of women moving around inside. He could beg, but...no. They'd more than likely throw him to the guards.

He waited for hours under that window, until the sounds died down, and risked a peek inside. The kitchen was empty. He slipped a lock pick out of his pack and worked on the window, then eased it open. He carefully climbed inside.

He ate the leftovers near the fire, and took half a loaf of bread and a variety of fruits. He drank greedily from the water bucket.

Then he heard footsteps, and the boy slipped into the shadows behind a cabinet, on bated breath. He forced himself to slowly let the water slip down his throat. His breath was soft and shallow as he watched the nord woman look around groggily, before grumbling to herself, clutching her head, grabbing a bottle from a shelf and leaving the room.

He slipped up the stairs and passed the rooms. At the end of the hall, he found one that was not locked, and slipped inside of it.

There were common clothes in the chest, slightly large for him but they were better than his rags. He took them, and put them on over his old clothes. He checked the rest of the room, finding nothing of interest aside from a single, simple book. When he opened it to the middle, he found it empty. He slipped it into his pack. He had no idea why-

Noise

Noise, footsteps coming down the hallway

Lupin glanced at the window. No time to get it open. The dresser would be too small. The chest would be the place he checked.

Under the bed he went, in silent prayer as the door opened and the man stumbled inside. He watched, horrified, as the mattress bowed down towards him while the heavy man above laid above him. He waited for even longer now, until the man's breath had settled into the familiar pattern of sleep, and slipped from the room.

Out of the inn, onto the streets. A bush, near the temple of Kynareth. He curled up underneath it, and let the morning pass over him as he lay among the soil, his tail touching his forehead.

It's late day when he awakens, underneath the bush. His pack is clutched tightly to his chest. He glances out at the town, fast approaching twilight. He waited, shivering slightly in the cold, watching as the townspeople passed by and began to wind down for the night.

Eventually, there was only one woman, sitting on a bench near the giant tree. He watched her, and carefully eased out the opposite side of the bush, sneaking away. The soil on his clothing fell away, leaving muddy patches that he scrapped off with his paws. Over the wall he went again, and he bid Whiterun farewell. He would go south. South of skyrim. Away from the cold and the memories...he watched the stars, and remembered the lessons his father had taught him...he went south.

South to Cyrodil.

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It was a long journey. A hard journey. The freezing nights where he slept in caves and hollows of snow, or just below the window of a villagers cottage, trying to draw heat from the wood. Twenty gold disappeared into food awfully fast, and...he had no choice. He would slip into the homes of those out at work and take the gold pieces on the tables...not much...only what he would need. He wove down through Riverwood, and past the border, heading to Bruma.

He read the book he had taken...and watched as words wrote themselves on the page, explaining themselves to other words. Books, books that could not be sold or gotten rid of...books that could allow the holder to speak over great distances. He read on, silently, and flipped to the back pages. He needed to practice his letters.