I thought her crazy when she suggested it, never thought I would be back here. The Olde Kingdom. Where Shor breathed unto the ancient mountains and formed the first men in the frosts. Birthplace of Tamriel's greatest warriors and seat of their earliest Empires. Ysmir the Stormcrowned, Ysgramor, Olaf One-eye, Talos, all began here. Wolfmen and Hag-wytches, draugr and dragons. A land of mead and monsters, gods and legends. Land of my ancestors. I haven't set foot here since I was a mere child, covered in mud with pigtails and bright eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

  Barbarians they called us back then, because we would not bow to Imperial law. Roaming where we will and hunting what we desired, the Elk and the mammoth belonged to Kyne, not some distant Nedic Emperor. Nor did we bend knee to the Aldmeri gods. Rejecting Kynareth and holding to the Stormveil Kyne, refusing to abandon Shor and honoring our dead in the name of Orkay rather than the elven Arkay. The Empire would complain, but the Jarls would turn a blind eye, back then they still knew what it was to be a True Nord.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  But even a clan like ours had limits, certain rituals too profane to practice, certain gods too unhallowed to call upon, certain hunts too dangerous to conquer. And like all youths with a head full of day dreams and grandeur, I ignored them. Fenrisulfr, he who endlessly hungers, Kyne's blessed creature taken and profaned by huntlord, twisted into a collosal warg. He had prowled the Northen frosts for an age and a day, ravaging travellers be they man, mer or even legion and leaving defiled woodland in his wake. And this small diminutive girl would return to the village wreathed in glory with his head in tow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  I don't remember the battle, or even if there was one. Nor do I recall stumbling back into the village, beaten, bloody and broken. They told me I lost a month as I lay in my sickbed, ravaged by bloodloss and fever, the clan shaman barely left the bedside. My wounds eventually faded and they called it a success, but the beast had not savaged my body, it had scarred my blood. I saw more than other men in the blackest of nights, I could hear the smallest of insects scuttling amidst the trees and catch the scent of even the most well hidden of prey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  It was a simple thing to hide when it first started. I could bite my tongue when I felt the rage building, I could be elsewhere when the moon arose. When a chicken vanished, when fences were found broken and the goats found dead and devoured I could point at the local roving packs and a hunt would be called to cull them. But as I grew so did the "Incidents." A lone traveller torn up on the road could be blamed on Skyrim's already savage wildlife, but when our own clansmen were discovered in the bounds of the village, brutally slain before they could even draw their blades I knew I could not remain amongst them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  I used to stare at the horizons, a small girl wanting to see what lay beyond those mountains and know more than the four leagues our clan claimed as it's domain and now all of Tamriel unfurled before me. New landscapes, foriegn forests and alien beasts. From the highlands of olde Colovia to the endless deserts of the Alik'r, the rolling hills and crags of Glenumbra to the inhospitable ashwastes of Deshaan. I walked them all for years, living off the land. Hunting beast and bandit, with bow and axe on quiet nights, with tooth and claw when the moon arose.

 

 

 

 

 

  I have read tales of others. Men with moonsouls who walked into the wilderness and never returned, gave in to the spirits of the wylde and the rage in their blood until they could no longer seperate themselves from creature inside howling for release. Despite avoiding the towns and cities civilized men built and keeping to the company of beasts, I never did. That did not stop the rumours though, a feral child in the forests, a wild woman raised by wolves, a mudcaked savage painted with forbidden runes. They spread far and wide enough that eventually the temple took notice. Kynareth's faithfull are skilled trackers, and when they came, they came armed.

 

 

 

 

  But rather than battle the temple of Kynareth found kinship. Like me, most of them prefered to walk the woodlands than cower behind city walls, Kyne's winds and wisdom are found in her sacred glades, not the cobbled streets of civilization. I did not wander alone any longer, the Kynrathi priestess, Lyris, followed. I served as an escort and guard as she made her pilgrimage to the monuments of ancient heroes, Doomstones and sacred glades. And in return she imparted the wind mother's wisdom, taught me numbers and letters and the prayers and rituals to honor the Stormveil.

 

 

 

 

 

  Kynareth's temples are known for their knowledge of alchemy, curing diseases both common and maelific. But they have other powers, Kyne giving them dominion over the wilds, allowing them to calm and pacify the minds of beasts, even mine. And whilst there are times I would miss the thrill of the hunt, the dissaproving look in Lyris' eye was enough to keep me from it. At some point in our travels we switched from two tents to one, and it wasn't long before we started to share the same roll of furs too by the end of the year our path led not to sites of pilgrimage, but to the chapel of Mara.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Seems it was an age ago since the wolf reared it's head, even when Masser was at it's peak. Whenever the rage bubbled up she was there with a word, a touch, a prayer to soothe it once more. It was Lyris who convinced me to come back here, to the Olde Kingdom. Build a house and settle down, the barbarian civilized, the wolf tamed. The only time she'd actually welcome back the wild was when the candles burnt low and she'd drag me to the bedroom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Domestic life has not always been as peacefull as I might make it seem. It is still Skyrim, wildlife, bandits, stormcloak soldiers passing through on their way to camps or battles. Local legends speak of a pale maiden haunting the crypts and barrows, the Hold's capital Dawnstar is whispered to be lingering under a curse. But to press, little more than stray wolves have troubled us. Peaceful enough for me to leave her be, to ride into Helcharchen for supplies before the long winter sets in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  I knew on the ride back. Before I even got close to the cabin, I heard the wolf begin to growl at the back of my throat as it began to activate senses I hadn't used in years. Hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, the lack of familiar sounds, foreign scents on the wind, the stench of Orsimer. An empty cabin greeted me, bloodstain on the floorboards, Lyris' blood, not enough to be fatal but I didn't care. Tracks in the snow outside, heavy set feet heading East, two days old.

 

 

 

 

  She told me I wouldn't need these anymore, throw them away or sell them. I locked it all away instead, no matter how many arrows a Nord takes to the knee they're still Nords and no Nord would willingly give up their axe. They have two days headstart, three if they're on horseback but it's not enough to save them. Even if the snow covers their tracks their scent still lingers and tomorrow is a full moon, no man or horse can outrun the monster in the blood.

 

 

 

 

 

 And whoever waits at the end of that trail is going to remember why men used to fear the wrath of the North.