Hounds of Hircine - A Historical Account [ADDED][Added OB]

[Graff]

Call of the Wolf
by Matinus Byrne

[Publisher’s note: Matinus Byrne, the author of this work, was a friend of mine in my youth. The manuscript of this tall tale arrived at my offices in Imperial City via messenger, with a note from Matinus himself, who I had not seen in ten years. Matinus was rumored to have died in the Skyrim wilderness, so I must say it came as a surprise to receive this. I cannot vouch for the factual content or accuracy of this tale, but I publish this book as a favor to a dear friend.]

Drip! Drip! Drip! Thud! Thud! Thud! There is no light, no sound except the dripping water and the sound of my own two feet, no even the sound of a heartbeat. The wall is cold and damp to my hands, and I can smell the blood that stains the wall and my hands. There is a momentary shuffle of feet behind me, and the click of a hard, sharp object against the floor, before more silence…


I was born Matinus Byrne of the Cyrodilic Empire, noble son and heir, before I took to the woods and the plains to find my calling. I felt that my destiny lay with that of my ancestors, the fierce Nords, and spent many months in the wilderness of Skyrim. A lesser man might have fallen under the ice and snow, and the ferocious beast that still stalk those lands, but I persevered. Yet I felt that my life had no true purpose, and so, at a loss, I crossed the border to Morrowind. The ashen land of the Dark Elves was poor and its creatures attacked travelers frequently. No one knows how many pilgrims and merchants have never reached their destination because of a chance encounter with a flock of Cliff Racers, or a particularly aggressive Kagouti. Unimpressed with the natives, I joined a merchant train as a hired sword, defending well-fed Hlaalu Noble’s goods with my life.

My main service to my employer was guarding his caravans as they journeyed through dangerous territory, though such journeys were often uneventful, probably due to the number of guards he chose to keep. One night, on such a journey, I noticed a band of what I could only assume were Nord Barbarians, making a chance raid across the border. Yet the other guards seemed unbothered by the fearsome grouping as they passed us along the narrow road. After I asked one of the more experienced guards, I was told I wasn’t altogether wrong. The Hounds of Hircine, he had called them, fierce predators loyal to The Hunter himself, traveling the entire empire in their search for a worthy prey. Interested by this, I took my leave of the merchant train, and followed the group towards their current quarry…


Hounds are by nature a hardy group, though their ragged appearance might not suggest it. Years of living amongst the creatures of Tamriel have matured them, making them superior hunters compared to the flabby, pampered hunters of the city. The wilderness yields good leather, furs and bone, enough for the Hounds to prosper far more than their steel-skinned counterparts. The skills I learnt among them were gleaned from generations of Hounds, for they refuse the delights of the cities, living a simple life.

The Hounds are not known for their magical talents, and indeed, they have few, save for the greatest among them. They are a simple folk, living by their hands and feet. Only once have I seen a Hound use magic, my own Pack Father cast a spell of summoning at the 5th of Mid Year, invoking the Hunter for some purpose beyond my understanding…


I tracked the group for many days across the ashen land of Vvardenfell; the hunters were strong and resourceful, yet they sought to cover their tracks. At the Foyada Mamaca I finally reached them, a great pack of 20 men, sleeping in the ash and loathsome vegetation, clothes matted in blood and filth. I did not approach them, for I had seen the sentries on the cliffs above, and concealed in shrubs along the Foyada. Their prey, a great number of Guars, had stood no chance against such a ferocious host.

The next morning, the pack continued to follow the Foyada, many more than I had seen last night. Two men now led them, young Nords with slightly more decorous clothing than that of their fellows, while several older men continued behind the pack. They had eaten well that morning, the remainder of the meat yielded to them by the Guar herd, and I had seen many giving thanks to the Hunter. When I felt a spear at my throat I knew that fighting was useless now. Before I could speak, I felt something hard crack across my skull, and the sunlight faded.


The Hounds, being the followers of Hircine, revere the Lycanthropes, its form and its manner, and even imitate them their rituals and daily lifestyle. Nothing brings more joy to a Hound’s heart than to hear the call of a werewolf, perhaps even see one in the moonlight. They are not reckless, though, and protect themselves against Lycanthropes as competently as they can, with charms and false scents. Many of the Hounds I have known, over my years of service to them, have yearned to contract Lycanthropy, though none were so foolish as to attempt it. Save one. While the werewolf is a perfect example of a true hunter, it is, at best, a mindless, savage creature.

I had been an acolyte of Hircine for just a few years when I heard of the Chamber of the Wolf. A dungeon deep below the ruins of a Dwemer outpost. I heard they kept a werewolf there, as a test of worth for the higher-ranking Hounds. My pack father confirmed it to me, a test of skill and speed to “huntâ€Â￾ the wolf, and return alive, was demanded by the Hunter as proof of a Pack Father’s loyalty. The greatest of the hunters regularly passed through the Chamber of the Wolf to keep their skills high and wits sharp. On the 1st of Mid Year, scant days from the invocation of the Hunter, I entered the Chamber.


I can feel the slippery gore beneath my feet, could smell fresh blood. Evidently I had not been the only creature to visit this place recently, though I had, at least, survived this long. Torch in one hand, the other against the handle of my axe; that it was silver held no comfort to me, for I would have to be stronger, quicker and smarter than the Lycanthrope long enough for me to remove its head, or escape through the hatch at the center of the ruin. All it needed was one lucky swing of the claw and my chance of survival would be gone.

I hear the clicking sound again, directly behind me, and then a howl that chills my blood, so close I can feel its breath hot on my neck. I run, though my wits keep no track of my direction. I hear the pained growl of a predator evaded, and the husky breathing of a large animal, running quickly towards me. I run harder, dropping all my weapons and equipment in a vain attempt to distance myself from the terrible beast.


My first few days among the Hounds were uneventful. The commanders of the two groups of Hounds, the “Pack Fathersâ€Â￾, questioned me about how I tracked them. They believed I was simply lucky to have slipped past their many sentries unnoticed, yet their two young lieutenants, the “Pack Brothersâ€Â￾, were of the opinion I was a skilled hunter myself. The two groups could not bring themselves to agree, and often the Pack Brothers could be seen cursing and shouting at the other side of the camp. They decided to test me, it seems. At daybreak, my bonds were cut, and I was led to a grassy hillock near the camp. One of the Pack Brothers, at his Pack Father’s behest, explained the test to me.

First I was to be smeared with the blood of a Guar, then sent off into the hills, where I would need to evade the indigenous beasts, such as the Alit, for until the sunset, before returning to camp. I would be watched all the time, and if I was thought to be escaping, I would be killed. I grimaced, and told him I understood, before allowing myself to be stripped and painted with the dark red blood of a guar. It smelt disgusting, and seemed to dry instantly upon me, making my skin feel tight. When it was done, I felt the sharp toe of a boot in my back, pushing me toward the ashen hills. As I walked forward, towards what seemed my inevitable doom, I heard one of the Pack Fathers laughing, and I felt a determination to pass this test of theirs. I would give them no sport.

I continued to walk steadily toward the ash hills, listening carefully for the sounds of creatures other than myself, taking each step as lightly as I could. In the corner of my eye, I could see a dark green blur against the dawn sun, then a second, until it seemed as if every Alit on the north coast of Vvardenfell could smell the stench of Guar blood, and was drawn in by it. I decided to find water, to wash the blood away, then head downwind of the Alit, towards the camp. By the time I found water, the sun was high in the sky, close to noon. There was a small stream northwest of the Foyada, which seemed to be unnoticed by man and creature alike, from the lack of footprints. I was sure that the Hounds knew exactly where I was, but I still jumped into that stream, scrubbing away every last speck of guar blood, until the stench was gone and I felt clean again. Then I began to walk northeast, towards the coast. The Pack Fathers were a little shocked when I arrived at their campfire at dusk, not a mark upon me, but they agreed I had passed the test, and invited me into their ranks.


I see a thin line of moonlight from the trapdoor that I had left ajar, and draw upon my reserves to throw myself at the ladder. I feel the raking of claws against my ankle. Despite the immense pain, I pull myself up the ladder, kicking at the arm dragging me back, until I have my arms and head against the cold stone of the ruin’s floor. I know the beast is still there. I continue to pull the rest of my body away from the hole, and hear the moans and movements of the animal as I kick at it again, before pulling my legs away from the trapdoor. I slam it shut, hearing the claws on the other side rattle and scratch at its surface, to no avail. I was safe, though my wound, a series of gashes on my right ankle, needed treatment. I was lucky. Of the many Hounds who had ventured into that ruin, few had left alive, and less sane.

I walk away from the Chamber of the Wolf, shirt tied around my bloody ankle, towards the nearest town, I have no money, but the ruin was littered with valuable armour and weaponry, I pay no heed to the armour I left behind. The Hounds have no claim upon me now. I pause as I hear a familiar call, a signal of the end of the hunt – The call of the wolf.