Utilisateur:Destroy/bac-à-sable/Le Défi de Kyne/Morrowind
Auteur réel : David S. J. Hodgson (Écrivain), David Keen (Artiste), Brynn Metheney (Artiste), Roberto Gomes (Artiste) Média d'origine : The Hero's Guides to The Elder Scrolls Online Commentaire : Ce livre est un périple à travers les provinces par un groupe de chasseurs nordiques en l'honneur de Kyne la Déesse des Cieux.
Par Grundvik Poing-Froid, 2E 581
 
R AGNARD | À l'orée de la Forêt Automnale et les Montagnes Velothi dans notre dos, la jovialité de la nuit précédente avait considérablement décliné. Krisha-do nous rejoint avant le départ de Longsanglot, loin de notre chasse. Fenrig s'assit à l'écart, baigné d'un rayon de la lumière de Secunda, gardant ses chiens loin de l'Argonien et du Kajhiit. Ingjard s'assit pensivement, murmurant calmement des prières à Kyne. Bashnag s'en est allé collecter du bois de feu, passant sa nuit à fourrager exhibant toute la délicatesse furtive du mammouth chez un apothicaire. Krisha-do cessa de converser avec Pas-Dans-La-Neige, et se pencha à mon oreille.
“Votre orcimerde attire le bruit aussi bien que les mouches nécrophages,” nota-t-elle d'une langue acérée, suscitant un gloussement rauque du lézard. “Peut-être Kishra-do lui offrira-t-elle des carillons afin qu'il puisse alerter toutes les bêtes des bois?” Je m'apprêtais à expliquer que nous ne rencontrerions aucun danger dans les parages, quand sifflement perçant interrompit ses insultes. Kishra-do bondi, empoignant rapidement son bâton, et l'abattit au sol avec une force considérable, perçant sèchement la tête d'un rongeur colossal. Ses petits yeux rouges nous fixa un moment, avant que Kyne ne rappelle l'esprit du ragnard pour l'offrir à Péryite. J'esquivais de justesse la gueule furieuse dentelée de crocs jaune et de maladie, alors qu'un ragnard sautait au centre de notre clairière. Trois, voire quatre, envahissant notre camp, probablement attirés par le feu. Ou le vacarme causé par l'exploration forestière nocturne de notre ami orque. Il s'occupa d'un ragnard en, abattant son puissant pied blindé, enfonçant autant la botte que la bête dans le sol mou. Les flèches d'Ingjard finirent le reste de la vermine. Fenrig leva tout juste le regard. Une pause brève et bagarreuse au sein de la conversation. “Comment ça, idiot?” répondit Kishra-do. Un peu sèchement, senti-je. “Ha! Je me vêtirais de votre peau comme une cape d'hiver si je vous pensais sérieuse,” continua Bashnag. Ingjard leva les yeux de sa peinture comme si je m'étais levé de mon siège. Ingjard me lança un regard de préoccupation, mais je secouais la tête; c'était les troubles saillants récurent quand d'autres sont emmenés à la chasse. L'orque agita l'arrière-train embroché d'un ragnard carbonisé au visage de Kishra-do. “Ne devriez-vous pas satisfaire votre régime alimentaire premier? De combien de façon différentes, peuple chat, mangez-vous les rats?” “Aucune, bâtard faible d'esprit. Nous nous retenons de jouer avec des bobines de fil, et marquons nos territoires avec des drapeaux, pas des sécrétions. Bien que je serais heureuse de faire une exception pour vous, qu'en dites-vous?” “Camarades chasseurs!” Je me dressais sur toute ma hauteur. “Vos chamailleries, bien qu'amusantes, offensent Kyne.” Je présentais une bouteille d'hydromel de Feucendré (la chose semblait adaptée, en circonstance de notre première destination), et la tendit à l'orque. Pour la Khajiit, une outre de Sucre de Lune double rhum. “Une preuve de diplomatie nordique?” J'offris.
S CARABÉE ASSASSIN | Nous aperçûmes le camp Cendrais au crépuscule; il s'établissait sur un banc de terre plat -- rare à rencontrer dans les étendues sauvages irrégulières d'Ébouli -- grêlée de petits rocs et arbres rachitiques torsadés. Fenrig approcha avec une torche allumée. Ses doutes (et le chahut de ses chiens) grandit comme s'il avait soulevé le drap d'une tente, et était presque renversé par l'odeur. Traînant un corps Dunmeri, il eu un peu de temps pour examiner les blessures, percées profondes, avant que Fang ne commence à grogner.
Quelque chose de large traînait des pieds dans l'une des autres tentes. Un faible cliquètement, un son rauque se fit audible. Mauler bondit dans la tente à toute vitesse. Fenrig eu tout juste le temps de dégainer son épée avant que Mauler ne se jette sur le premier scarabée assassin. Nous attendions son appel, mais il décida de confronter les deux insectes avec ses chiens. Mauler bascula tôt hors de la tente, attaché à la carapace de cet énorme ennemi rampant, une masse de noir, rouge et mèches grises. Les mandibules claquant et tâtonnant, le scarabée attrapa le molosse et l'enfonça avec une profonde morsure, l'envoyant japper hors de la cohue. Fang referma ses crocs sur la solide carapace du sacrabée et l'arracha, tentant de basculer l'insecte sur son dos (tel qu'elle y avait été entrainée). Le scarabée fouetta de ses mandibules écumantes, mordant l'air proche de la cape de Fenrig. Vint une clameur, alors que Bashnag se devait d'être retenu de charger pour cogner un second scarabée assassin qui s'enfuyait de la même tente. Scarabée qui disparut immédiatement. Quelques instants plus tard, l'insecte ressurgit, derrière Fenrig, et sauta au dos du nordique la bouche claquante. Les sens de Fenrig ne le trahirent pas. Il fit volte-face, attrapant l'abdomen dans une violente déchirure transversale, puis recula pour éviter l'abondante douche de sang acide du scarabée. Il se retourna quand Fang taillait la carapace en pièces, le scarabée se tordant, le mauvais côté dans le mauvais sens. Une autre épée s'abattit, et le mystère du camp Cendrais était résolu. Nous ne trouvâmes aucune preuve de la présence d'une ruche, et brulions donc les restes des vagabonds Dunmeri. Alors que Pas-Dans-La-Neige creusait la coquille vide, Bashnag mijota un ragoût de scarabée. Celui-ci ne put être décrit que comme "majoritairement digestible", en dépit des garanties de l'orque sur ses compétences de chef cuisinier.
E NVELOPPE PESTIFÉRÉE | La lueur de Bal Foyen pointait, scintillant à travers le voile de cendres, obstruant la rivière sinueuse jusqu'à ne plus être que du limon, s'écoulant doucement au-delà de ce site aux ancestrales origines Dwemer. Le Mont Écarlate, et ses nombreuses faibles éruptions, dû sans doute étouffer la végétation et rendre la vie intolérable aux Dunmers. Telle est cette terre de gris permanent. Notre périple se faisait lent, les cendres particulièrement profondes, et le temps semblait passer avec un malaise exténuant. Ou, ainsi le présentait notre ami Argonien, “En ce lieu, même les rocs sont désolés.”
Des voiles humides (ou se curer le nez continuellement dans le cas de Bashnag) aidaient à respirer alors que nous nous traînions sur un sol plus dur, et sur les routes pavées vers Bal Foyen. Notre bienfaiteur, mon Roi Skald, et notre ferme alliance au sein du Pacte Cœurébène nous prévint d'engager sans raison le combat contre les Dunmers. Une règle que même l'Orc suivi volontier, ce qui rendit notre combat si involontairement mortel. Masser et Secunda s'élevaient et la vallée fut baignée d'une sinistre lumière. Les vents s'étant apaisés, nous entendions très faiblement l'animation qui s'échappait de la ville lointaine, l'écho des bruits le long des roches. Fenrig, sur un haut faîte, semblait préoccupé par les étoiles. Mais il offrit une succession de sifflement stridents, et pointa une voie au reste d'entre nous, qui ne l'avions pas vu. Trois Dunmers... drapées de parures... apparemment perdus. Alors que nous contournions l'angle, nous ciblions la proie de Fenrig: une calèche opulente. Les chevaux mutilés et traînés vers un fossé. Un noble Dunmeri, encastré dans une roue, avait expiré. Nous courûmes à leur aide. Les trois ombres fines restèrent sourdes à nos salutations initiales, se contentant de marcher tranquillement de façon irrégulière. Un autre se révéla parmi les rochers, et Ingjard empoigna son arc et donna l'alarme. “Enveloppes Pestiférées!” s'écria-t-elle. Je lui fis signe de ralentir, et avançait vers l'Elfe Noir le plus proche pour vérifier. La chose se retourna, et la lueur des lunes révéla une face atrocement déformée. Il s'agissait d'un malheureux qui avait depuis longtemps succombé aux horreurs de la Peste. Comme ses serviteurs, il n'était plu qu'une masse de peau boursouflée, déchirée et fendue, parsemée de furoncles violets amassés, et autres chairs éclatées et palpitantes. Les entrailles apparaissaient à travers les trous dans la chair; à se demander comment ses entrailles n'étaient pas déjà sorties. Une jambe gonflée de tumeurs, la chair mue vers l'une de ces brèches dilatées. Une grotesque masse turquoise, traînant sous le clair de lune. Nos voiles furent ôtés. Le Tumulte: Le son des éclats vomis, crépitant sur le bouclier de l'Orc, alors que deux des enveloppes se précipitaient sur Bashnag. “Grundvik!” s'écria l'Orc. “Votre pacte s'étend aux Dunmers morts-vivants ?” Je répondis d'un coup de hache bien amené, qui mis mon adversaire à genoux. Pas-dans-la-neige fit remarquer que, en vérité, ils ne devaient être considérés comme morts-vivants, et était concrètement les victimes encore vivantes d'une purulence active en ces contrées. “Cette fois sera une exception!” m'écriais-je au-dessus du discours décousu de l'Argonien, alors que le fil de ma hache enfonçait la nuque de l'enveloppe, mon bouclier me protégeant contre les giclées de sang et d'infection. Les victimes de Bashnag étaient un peu plus atteintes, l'une répandant une traînée de sang et de bile violette alors qu'il rampait lascivement vers l'Orc d'une main congestionnée. L'Orc le repoussa, criant un avertissement.“Ne fus-je pas clair ? envoyez-les à Mauloch!” hurlais-je. Bashnag fit sauter et ricocher sa cible dans la ruée. Les putrides sacs d'os mous le regardèrent d'une expression funeste, et émirent un nuage de vapeurs répugnantes. “Couvrez-votre visage, puissant chêne!” parvint tardivement le conseil de l'Argonien: l'enveloppe éclata de toutes parts, couvrant Bashng d'un brouillard de poix et de fluides internes. Il parvint à frapper son autre ennemi d'un coup net par un furieux de revers de sa masse démesurée; les enveloppes Dunmeri s'éparpillèrent dans les airs avant de s'échouer dans la rivière. Nous avons survécu aux enveloppes, mais l'Orc devra probablement être éliminé durant son sommeil.
K AGOUTI | Nous retournions dans les nuages gris suffocants d'Éboulis, cherchant à récolter des peaux indigènes sur le dos de bêtes abattues à tanner en bandes et à vendre pour leur cuir. Cette terre semble damnée au feu et aux éructations du Mont Écarlate; nous nous aventurions le long du cratère, genoux profondément enfoncés dans la cendre. Traquer n'est pas aisé, mais Ingjard s'attelle à expliquer à Bashnag les méthodes les plus subtiles pour localiser une proie sous ces conditions inclémentes. Sa volonté d'enseigner est louable, mais son élève ici dans un seul but: écraser les crânes de ceux qui menacent notre groupe, et cuisiner la chair de ceux qui sont comestibles. Élargir ses connaissances semble presque insultant.
Ironiquement, c'est Bashnag qui le premier repéra la trace d'une activité de kagoutis. Alors qu'il tapait ses bottes avec agacement pour les nettoyer, Ingjard examina la piste plus attentivement. Concentrée, elle suivit la trace droit vers une crête rocheuse et des champignons rabougris en croissance. J'expliquais la différence entre un kagouti et un alit à Pas-dans-la-neige; les deux bêtes partagent une collection similaire d'os et de chair dure, mais le kagouti est plus large, ses arrêtes dorsales sont plus plates et des défenses lui manquent qu'a son cousin plus petit. La stature du kagouti qu n'a pas l'alit peut lui faire défaut, mais les cicatrices sur mon bras, mémoire de mes aventures de jeunesse sur les Monts Velothii à la chasse de ce gibier facile, révèlent un tempérament plus vicieux et un instinct combattif plus sournois. Ingjard me fit signe. Je montais à son côté, et observais trois kagouti - je me rappelais instantanément de leurs pattes et queues trapues - devant une route caravanière sinon déserte en dessous de nous. Un corps frais, d'un alchimiste, avait été malmené. Fin, des yeux rouges luisants à travers un casque de plates. Exhumant triomphalement, une mâchoire arrachée pendant des ses crocs saliveux, le plus large des kagouti chargea dans le corps du Dunmer mort, éperonnant le corps et usant de ses défenses pour déchiqueter sa proie. Le marchant gisait en un monceau déchiqueté et convulsant. Fenrig avait été prié de se placer en embuscade, et il se sépara calmement des autres, contournant le chemin marchand plus bas pour un point plus avantageux de rocs écharpés de l'autre côté. The kagouti had bitten down into the still form of the dead Elf, ripping open the alchemist’s guts as it began to separate sections of Dunmeri meat for its lesser brethren. I nodded to Fenrig and we readied our bows as Ingjard slid down the embankment, shield and axe at the ready. The kagouti bull turned and roared at her, beginning a charge that ended with Ingjard’s shield taking the full brunt of the kagouti’s heavy head. Ingjard staggered back, her axe already swinging. The kagouti dropped its head, and the axe scraped off with only a nick. Her second swing was more successful; as her axe dug up through its chin, the kagouti’s eyes bulged and it sank into the ash floor with a wheeze. The lesser kagouti had already fallen to our arrows, sent (with Kyne’s blessing) between the plated armor. As kagouti hide dried on our racks, Fang was growling at the Argonian again. Then hissing, which I hadn’t heard before. Footfalls-in-Snow, it seemed, had befriended a lizard creature, which had taken to its new master like an Orc to violence. This was a scuttler: a more dog-sized, docile, and intelligent cousin of the guar, but not as tasty. It was snapping at Fenrig’s hound, raising its back spines and flaring its neck ruff. I nodded to Fenrig, who snapped his fingers, and Fang slunk back to his feet, while the scuttler rubbed the Argonian’s legs and made an odd cooing sound. There’s a fine line between pets and pests, and that Argonian may have crossed it.
K WAMA SCRIB, WARRIOR, AND WORKER | Our Argonian retainer volunteered for scouting work this morn, and despite Fenrig’s grumbling protests, I gave him the chance to scour the volcanic gloom for signs of a kwama colony. Not five minutes had passed before the lizard returned, deftly dodging Fang’s growling snaps (those war dogs aren’t fond of anything scaly, it seems), and dropping to his haunches at my tent. He quickly sketched a map in the ash, showing a narrow opening to a large cavern alarmingly close by.
Fenrig entered, and gestured with a dismissive wave, “We trust the hunt of this scaly fellow?” Footfalls-in-Snow peered up from his haunches as Fenrig continued. “Grundvik, your map vanishes with the wind. The same fate awaits us if we wander down a lizard’s path.” Ingjard asked what was vexing him, and Fenrig stepped in front of the Argonian, seeking a more private conference. “Between us Nords and Kyne? My dogs don’t trust him. That means I don’t trust him. This area is filled with fissures and loose scree, where a scaly hand can push you to meet Orkey. Where’s the evidence of a kwama nest? My dogs don’t smell any.” “The ash particles block your dogs’ noses, friend.” Footfalls-in-Snow spoke softly as he untied one of his many bags, and threw the still-twitching head of a kwama forager at our feet. “And this isn’t a trick of the light. I harvest kwama eggs in Black Marsh.” Before Fenrig could respond, Bashnag poked his head and considerable shoulders through the tent flap. He was grinning like a madman meeting Sheogorath. “My bearded friends! And the stonefist woman!” The Orc waved his gauntlet excitedly. “The lizard must be a magician, as he’s conjured a real force to test us! Large, brown insect men approach! While Mauloch commands me to slay them all, I might need—” Bashnag’s voice was severed as a broomstick-thin arm attached to an angular claw closed around his throat, and he was pulled violently outside. As tall as a Breton, but far less likely to utilize cunning political diplomacy to settle territorial disputes, the kwama are a hive-minded plague of giant insects sculpted by Kyne in shapes of varying grotesqueness. The Argonian was obviously right; we were being swarmed by warriors, the defenders of the kwama colony’s burrowing tunnels. Thin but powerful forearms, clad in plates of natural armor that extended around the neck and down the back to a rattling thorax, with a hunch and a head of further plating, out from which poked a small, snapping pincer mouth and two beady eyes. We were blessed by Kyne’s generosity; I had never seen as many of these foes in one place. We’d have our pick of the spoils… if there were any of us left to claim them.. Our predicament was now less of a hunt, and more of a pitched battle. Normally, Bashnag’s wanton bludgeoning resulted in less-than-pristine ingredients for our benefactor. But such was the choice of kwama scurrying over the gray rocks, I happily watched him cave in the skulls of a half dozen kwama warriors, as his red mist descended and his combat degenerated into a mass of flying limbs (some detached) and sickening crushing sounds. I ran to higher ground, introducing two slavering kwama warriors to the sharp end of my axe. Fenrig whistled, but this wasn’t for the benefit of his dogs. He was forcing his way into a secondary entrance, which had far fewer warriors defending. Fang and Mauler seemed to be enjoying themselves as they hung onto various kwama appendages before their master finished their foes with an arrow. We met at the entrance, causing the warriors to retreat into the fissure crack where our Argonian first spotted them. Into the nest we descended, finding the passageways empty, until we found a hatching cavern large enough to accommodate us (and Bashnag’s wide-reaching combat style). A clattering of insect feet was heard further down the passage. As the Argonian began plucking eggs from their fluid sacs, we readied our ambush. A confused kwama worker scampered into our trap, and let out a shriek when Fenrig’s swift axe connected. Staggering on its four legs, this dog-sized mass of curved head plates attached to a bulging, segmented body and four unsteady but talon-tipped legs lunged for Ingjard. She sidestepped the worker, missing its poisonous, snapping mandible. Those mouth talons helped carve the tunnels we were fighting in; Nord bone would crack easily between its teeth. Fortunately, instead it fell to numerous Nord arrows, and deflated. More scurrying sounds, and a couple of scribs (recently hatched larval forms) scurried into our chamber, along with more warriors. They shared the same general appearance as their larger, more upright brethren, but were far less dangerous. Unfortunately, Fang’s overeagerness to leap into the fray allowed us to witness the scrib’s only real means of defense: it managed to connect with a lunging bite, slowing the dog to a paralyzed stupor. Had this been a swarm of scribs, Fang’s malaise would have overwhelmed her. We quickly changed to our axes, blades, and hammers, and readied for more. Bashnag was holding back the warriors with rabid glee. “Mauloch drinks your blood!” he yelled between prods, pummels, and wild mace swings. As Footfalls-in-Snow and Ingjard began to drag the scrib and worker corpses back outside for stripping, Bashnag adjusted his chin guard after a kwama warrior a little larger than the Orc’s previous victims clambered over the pile of insect bodies and caught Bashnag squarely in the jaw with two swift punches, augmented by a crackle of magical energy. “You hit like a forge wife!” Bashnag retorted, as he staggered back, allowing the warrior to scrape the ground with its talons, and swiftly stomp the dirt. Up shot a sharp spine of hardened ash, gashing the Orc in the leg. This eruption was not to last; Bashnag unleashed his fury, grabbed the warrior’s head, and twisted it apart from its humped shoulders. Thick ooze coated the Orc and the walls of the cavern. The remaining kwama swarm watched their champion’s decapitation with uncertainty, allowing us to roll a boulder to block further investigation and hasten our escape. We retreated back into the Ashlands, dragging our corpse loot away from the colony’s clutches. Although Bashnag would have merrily fustigated his way to the kwama queen herself, we had all the eggs, meat, and leather we needed. While Bashnag stitched up his leg, I asked the Argonian how the extraction of cuttle (the waxy extract from within a kwama’s beak) was coming along. Footfalls-in-Snow rummaged in one of his many carrying satchels, and produced a strange tool, flat and smooth at one end, with sharpened, barbed edges at the other. “This is a t-thuk, in the tongue of my egg brothers,” he said, showing me the correct way to grip the device. “It pries apart bone as a Colovian burns a forest: quickly and without much forethought.” Taking the dismembered kwama heads from Bashnag’s collection bag, the Argonian swiftly jammed the instrument up through the beak palate and cracked it open, and raw cuttle spilled out onto his catch cloth. He flipped the tool and used the sharper edges to scrape any remaining matter still embedded within the beak. Then he repeated the process with the other intact heads. A most impressive scavenging technique: his method meant there were no skull shards to pick through, and the cuttle remained moist before sealing in our merchant jars. The Argonian proved his usefulness for a second time today.
A LIT | The ash winds died down a little as we passed into the fertile plains of Deshaan, thankful to breathe clear air. We followed a gloomy trader’s path interrupted by the green glow of marker lanterns. As we skirted Mournhold, we decided to hug the edge of the fungal forest. My concerns for Footfalls-in-Snow grow as a wart on the nose of a hagraven; he seemed mesmerized by the glimmering mushrooms. I requested he not lead us into a mire. He beckoned me over, and pointed to the tracks we’d been following, gesturing to a grazing area of short grass and loose boulders.
“Alit. Beware; they are not without teeth.” Alit leather is highly prized by Ashlanders, and more so by our benefactor, but we were halted by the Argonian; he wished to face these creatures alone and prove his mettle. We watched as he crawled towards two thickly set walking mouths, squat, scaled, and ferocious of claw. Beady yellow eyes darted, and nostril slits embedded into a mottled green mantle sniffed the air nervously. Soon after, a shrieking roar from the larger alit signaled the Argonian’s ambushed had failed, as the beasts split from their feeding and circled our tracker, in an attempt to surround and bewilder him. Footfalls-in-Snow charged at the bigger alit; it dug its oversized claws into the ground and braced for the Argonian’s dagger, which struck the beast behind the eye. A shallow wound, but a hit nevertheless! The smaller alit leapt, attempting a rip to the face, but our lizard friend ducked the attack, and drove his dagger into the neck. The beast slumped forward, deflating like a punctured bladder. The remaining alit chose an inopportune moment to widen its mouth into a roaring bite; the Argonian plunged his blade directly into the maw; the alit choked and writhed as spittle and blood sprayed the grazing grounds. “You’re looking a little green around the gills,” Fenrig remarked with a smile. Fenrig’s moroseness has lessened in recent days. Perhaps our Argonian friend is more of an asset than I first realized.
G UAR | We are guests in the land of the Dunmer, and although some of the greener-tinged members may not act with appropriate veneration even without mead flowing through their veins, we must respect the Dark Elf and their way of life. Passing into the realm of Deshaan, we encountered farms of grazing guar, one of the many oddly proportioned, bulbous-headed creatures that are bred as pack animals or mounts. Our descendants will not sing songs about the triumphs of a band of grubby poachers. Kyne would not smile fondly on our steadiness with a bow when aiming at a chicken or a goat. So we hunt feral guar across the ribbons of windswept grass.
Fenrig’s dogs picked up the scent and stayed a respectful distance away from our kill; their master is an exceptional shepherd. Slightly darker, marked with scars both old and fresh, and lapping at pond water near a meandering stream, Fenrig’s dogs crept away, while he produced a finely forged blade and equally robust shield. The guar, looking up with tiny forearms tucked in behind its bulging snout, gapped teeth lining its dribbling mouth, spotted Fenrig and hissed. The Argonian’s scuttler twitched and hissed back, and I shot a glare for the lizard to stifle the noise. Hardened feral head hit tempered iron shield as the guar turned from a trot to a sprint, sending Fenrig reeling onto his back, his weapon dropped. The guar attempted a mighty leap, landing atop Fenrig, where the beast’s intermittent rows of stumpy (but sharp) teeth darted and snapped into the Nord’s forearm, glancing off the armor with a clang. Fenrig soon regained his composure (and his sword), stuffing the full length of the weapon up to the hilt through the guar’s exposed belly, which ripped apart as a feast of internal parts tumbled out, splattering the ground while the guar squealed and dropped atop its bits. Mauler and Bashnag both licked their lips, although the Orc wait longer for his meal. The dogs feasted on offal and bones while the Argonian stripped the hide from the corpse. It hung to dry as we enjoyed slightly tough (but eminently edible) roasted guar fillets. Fenrig abstained from eating, with a faraway look in his eyes.
B ULL NETCH | The Ashlander camp was partially burned. The guar pens were broken, with bodies of livestock strewn and scattered about the grassy plain. A family of netch were huddled together above a small lake, close to the burned-out tents and charred Dunmeri corpses. Ingjard reckoned the dead were on the march in these parts. Footfalls-in-Snow noted that netch leather and jelly were on our list to gather. Our slaughter work was seemingly done, but upon closer inspection, the netch corpses had been baking too long in the sun, and were bubbling with putrefaction. The leather was salvageable, though a fresher kill was needed.
While Fenrig began to skin the rotting netch, we advanced to the lake to view a bull, a betty netch, and two calves. The larger of these hovering beasts was growing increasingly agitated, and its internal propulsion sacs were pulsing with vapors. We covered our noses, slowed our breathing, and advanced, coaxing the bull away from its family with a precise Argonian arrow up through the soft underbelly flesh. Bashnag was seemingly unprepared for the slap he received, and seemed surprised to be on his back, coated in a cloud of poison bloom the bull had violently shaken out as it pressed the attack. Scrambling back with a splutter and a wheeze, the Orc managed to place a mighty swing of his obscenely sized mace right into the netch’s side. I heard a crack as the netch wobbled, its tentacles shuddering, before it retaliated, violently plunging its arms down into Bashnag’s unbalanced form with a focused thrust. The Orc staggered back in the shallow waters, spat out a tooth, grinned, and swung his mace in a great arc once more. The hit was impressive, crushing hide and bone, and the bull dropped from the air with a thick, wet thud. The Argonian was at the body with a carving knife before the bull had stopped twitching. “We feast well tonight, lad!” Bashnag shouted at me. Siphoning the glands for its jelly, Footfalls-in-Snow quickly and patiently explained that netch meat was mostly poisonous, and less appetizing “than the toe fungus from a spriggan.” The Orc muttered something about “rather gnaw on Witchmen bones anyway,” and stomped off to apply antidote to his ingested blight.
N IX-HOUND | Among the rocky outcrops littering the plains of billowing grass, Fenrig first found the tracks, close to a pile of old, gnawed bones and the rags of an Ashlander. “A pack of five, perhaps six. Down into the mushroom woods,” Fenrig pointed to the trees swaying in the breeze, their twilight shadows lessened by the faint glow of the giant fungi poking up from the forest floor. He whistled, and Fang went bounding down into the bushes, closely followed by her furry brother. Bashnag was feeling better, and even recognized the footprints of a nix-hound; he recalled driving them out of King Kurog’s animal pens in lower Wrothgar. “They’re as fast as a wolf, but are too simple minded to flee a fight they’re losing,” he explained.
“Perhaps a description of a certain Orc I could mention?” I thought, but decided not to utter. Instead, I remarked that I was surprised these creatures had made their way so far west. I was less surprised that the Orc hadn’t heard of the alchemical qualities of the beast’s meat. Perhaps the horribly bitter taste had put him off? The Argonian confirmed nix-hound flesh, a small amount of blood, and “at least four intact claws” were required by our benefactor. I requested that Bashnag keep his bludgeoning to a minimum until our quota was met. The moons were large and glistening as Ingjard adjusted her bowstring, and the bird song and forest voices quietened, replaced by the faint sounds of rustling. Then commotion in the damp undergrowth. Extending our hunting tendrils out to surround Fenrigs, his dogs, and our prey, we encroached on a clearing where Fang was staring, back arched and fur up, at a spindly looking creature, all sharp claws and hooked knees, a serrated, insect-like back, erect and threatening, with a crown of armored skin above a revolting face with pink, cloudy eyes of differing sizes embedded between quivering mandibles, dominated by a sword-shaped snout. It emitted a baying shriek as it saw its chances of a meal dwindle, and leapt at Fang anyway. It landed behind Fang; its nose swung and scraped the dog’s hindquarters, before the Nix-Hound was put on its back permanently by one of Ingjard’s arrows. Fang began to pad forward with jaws open to play with the corpse, but a quick whistle from Fenrig kept the corpse intact. The perimeter of the clearing shimmered slightly. Three more nix-hounds decided to end their lives on our armaments. One found the only opening in Bashnag’s armor, mounted the Orc, and began quickly leeching the blood from his neck. It was merrily gulping down fluids until it felt a gauntlet around its throat. Too late I shouted to the Orc to keep the body intact; it was thrown to the ground with enough force to wake a sleeping draugr, and squashed under mace and armored boot. A collection of protruding bones and indistinct offal remained. Fenrig and Mauler fared a little better, his sword clashing with nix-hound nose before the head was lopped off with the type of clean, quick precision I’d expected of a Nord. Ingjard was slightly perplexed as her target blinked from existence behind a tree, only to reappear behind her, rearing up for a stab to the back. I brought my axe across the back of the last nix-hound, severing it completely. Mauler lapped up the blood as I brought out my vial and daintily filled it with the blood we needed. Our meal was easily forgotten; nix-hound meat is sour as a jilted Breton queen. Footfalls-in-Snow was simmering some mushrooms from the Bitter Coast, which helped mask the taste somewhat. Bashnag rubbed his neck vigorously. “By Vivec’s curse, is there anything we’re hunting in this infested province that won’t give me an itch, cough, or droop?” “Do not tremble, tiny leaf,” Footfalls-in-Snow replied, “for you have finally stopped soiling yourself; the Afraid Wind lessens to a mere draft. Your illness vanishes on the breeze.” Us Nords stopped our low murmuring and Ingjard reached for a mead bottle. “Your rudeness displeases Mauloch greatly, lizard,” the Orc retorted. “Perhaps the only delicious creature in Morrowind is an Argonian? Would you share your tail with us, lizard? I hear it grows back.” The Argonian peered up at the Orc over the steaming cooking pot, and gritted his teeth. “Unlike a wasteful Orc, Argonians use every parts of their prey. Your skin would make a good drumhead.” Bashnag’s laughter echoed across the plains. It was fortunate that the Orc hadn’t realized the Argonian’s hackles were up.
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