Almistyor
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Something Wicked Ch. 17
🕑 Added 2025-02-23 13:11:46 +0000 UTCJohn moved at a steady pace, his breath curling in the frigid air, boots crunching against ice and packed snow. The distant howls of wolves echoed through the jagged cliffs, but they kept their distance. Maybe they smelled the blood on him. Maybe they smelled something worse.
The Ebony Blade remained sheathed, but its presence gnawed at the edge of his senses, a slow, insidious drip of awareness.
He rolled his shoulder, adjusting the weight of his pack. The Vigilants of Stendarr weren’t exactly known for their kindness, especially toward those who dabbled in Daedric artifacts. But John wasn’t looking for kindness. He was looking for a way to get rid of the damn thing on his back.
The snow thickened as he pressed on, the cold creeping through his cloak. His fingers, despite the warmth of his gloves, felt stiff.
Frankly speaking, he was lost. Whatever that ghost had done, it had made him lose track of time. Who knew just how far he had walked from the path in that time? How far it had made him trail after it?
He clenched his jaw. Losing his bearings wasn’t something he made a habit of. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of nowhere because of just that. Magic was no excuse, he needed to be better than that.
John reached into his pack, fingers brushing over his supplies. They'd last for a while, but how long would 'a while' really be?
Damn it. He wasn’t going to die out here. Not after everything.
A flicker of movement in his periphery.
In the thick snow, it was hard to tell, but there was a plume of smoke in the distance.
Shelter, maybe? Civilization, at least.
Either way, it was better than wandering blind. He adjusted his grip on the pack’s strap and moved. His pace was brisk but measured, careful not to exhaust himself in the deepening snow. The cold was starting to bite through his layers, slipping into the gaps between cloth and leather, needling against his skin.
The landscape barely changed as he trudged forward. White, gray, the occasional jut of stone. The sound of his own breath, steady but edged with exertion. The howling of wolves had faded, but that wasn’t necessarily a comfort.
John had almost instinctively gone for the Blade whenever he thought he saw something, only to stop himself from doing so. It would not do to use it, not when a damn demon was pleased with him for doing so.
As he neared, the source of the smoke took shape. A small camp, barely more than a lean-to and a struggling fire. People hunched by the flames, wrapped in furs, their backs to him.
No, that was wrong. Not wrapped in furs. Khajiit.
One of which was looking at him in surprise.
There was a moment where the both of them were just staring at one another, before the Khajiit grabbed the attention of the others, pointing right at John.
Carefully, John made sure not to attract any undue hostility, as the Khajiit seemed more surprised than angry.
John stopped just outside the fire’s reach, his posture loose but ready. John kept his hands visible, away from his weapons, though he remained keenly aware of every movement around him. The Khajiit weren’t drawing weapons, but they were watching him with careful wariness.
The one who’d first noticed him spoke, voice low and even, “This one did not expect to see another traveler in such bitter cold.”
His accent was thick, but the words carried an easy fluidity. A guard, from the sword strapped on his waist.
John exhaled, the steam of his breath curling between them, “Didn’t expect to be here myself.” He glanced at the fire, then back at them, “Mind if I warm up?”
A female stepped forward then, taller than the others, her fur a deep, smoky gray. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, “A traveler so far from the road, alone in the night. And armed.” Her gaze flickered to the hilt at his side, “This one is curious.”
John met her eyes, unreadable and unflinching, “Just passing through.”
A pause. Then, a slow nod.
“This one is Ahkari.” She said, gesturing to herself before motioning toward the others, “Zaynabi, Dro’marash, and Kharjo.”
The large one, Kharjo, folded his arms across his chest, expression unreadable but not hostile.
John nodded in acknowledgment, "John, of Riverwood."
Ahkari’s ears flicked at that, though her expression remained neutral, “Riverwood is far from here. And a cold place for a traveler to be lost.”
John only gave a small shrug, stepping closer to the fire’s warmth, “Long road.”
Zaynabi, the smallest of the group, let out a quiet chuff of amusement, “A long road indeed, if it led you here.”
John said nothing. He knelt by the fire, stretching his hands toward the flickering heat, letting it seep into his fingers. His limbs still ached from the cold, but his focus remained on the Khajiit. None of them had relaxed fully, but there was no hostility in their stances.
Ahkari settled onto a crate, draping her tail over her lap, “This one must ask, John of Riverwood. Are you merely lost, or is there another reason you wander in the snow?”
John weighed his words carefully. The Vigilants would not take kindly to his burden, and he doubted the Khajiit would either. He had no interest in testing their patience.
“Looking for someone.” He said finally. “Vigilants of Stendarr.”
The atmosphere around the fire shifted, subtle but undeniable.
"Ah, looking to stock up in Dawnstar before braving the mountainside then?" A glimmer of friendliness from Akhari that wasn't there before.
John frowned slightly, his breath slow and measured, “Dawnstar?”
Ahkari’s ears flicked, her expression shifting ever so slightly. “Yes. The road to the Hall of the Vigilants is a harsh one, even for the faithful. Few go there without first stopping in town.”
John exhaled, barely audible over the wind.
He’d passed it.
He’d walked right by the Vigilants of Stendarr without even realizing it.
His fingers curled slightly before he forced them to relax. That damn ghost - whatever it had done to him, however it had led him astray - it had cost him time.
Or maybe it was the Blade. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Ahkari was still watching him. He schooled his expression, masking irritation behind tired indifference.
“Right,” He said, voice even. “Dawnstar.”
“If you wish to travel to town, however, this one suggests you wait for the storm to pass.” At that, there was a collective grumbling as Ahkari spoke, “Bad enough that it came in so suddenly, even worse that it blew away most of our tents.”
John glanced up. The storm wasn't letting up soon. The more he stayed here, the more he realized that even the frozen wasteland that was Siberia had nothing on the blizzards that Skyrim could produce.
The Khajiit weren’t wrong - about waiting for the storm to pass that is. No, he needed to get to the Vigilants yesterday, but it would be moot if he froze to death.
He clenched his jaw. Another delay.
Ahkari flicked her tail, studying him with that same shrewd look, “If you intend to stay, John of Riverwood, perhaps you would not mind earning your place by the fire.”
John arched a brow, “That depends.”
She gestured toward the ruined tents, the scattered supplies half-buried in the snow, “This one would rather not spend the night digging through frost.”
John exhaled through his nose. Manual labor wasn’t an issue - he’d done worse for less. And he wasn’t about to sit around doing nothing while freezing to death.
He rolled his shoulders, “Fine. Just tell me what needs doing.”
…
The Khajiit wasted no time putting him to work. The moment that the storm weakened somewhat, John, Kharjo and Dro'marash worked to dig up the stock of the caravan, most of which were actually in decent condition.
Apparently, this is what they had been doing for a good while now, but had been forced to stop when the winds picked up once more. Now that it had subsided, they worked to quickly grab where the spare tents were and set it up.
John worked in steady silence, his breath coming in slow, controlled exhales as he dug through the snow alongside Kharjo and Dro’marash. The Khajiit were efficient, their movements practiced. No doubt they'd had to do this several times already. John matched their pace, his hands numb but steady as they unearthed crates and supplies buried under layers of frost.
The cold bit deep, but exertion kept it at bay.
“Stronger than you look.” Kharjo noted, his voice a low rumble. He hoisted a crate free from the ice, shaking the snow from its edges.
John merely grunted, brushing frost from his sleeves before moving to help lift the next bundle.
When the last of the supplies were accounted for and the tents restored, Ahkari inspected their work with a satisfied nod.
"You are useful, John of Riverwood," She said. "And so, you may sit by our fire without debt."
John didn’t reply, just dusted snow from his gloves and stepped back toward the warmth of the flames. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him still, curiosity not yet satisfied. That was fine. He wasn’t here to make friends.
Ahkari settled back into her spot, tail flicking idly. “Tell this one,” She said, her voice carrying the lilt of conversation rather than interrogation. “What brings you to the Vigilants?”
John stretched his fingers toward the fire, letting the heat sink into stiff joints. He considered his answer. The truth? Out of the question. A lie? No, too much effort to maintain.
“I need something from them.” He said simply.
Zaynabi chuffed again, leaning back against a crate, “And what does John of Riverwood seek from the hunters of Daedra?”
John exhaled slowly, watching the firelight dance over the snow. He could feel the Blade at his back, like a whisper just on the edge of hearing.
“…A solution.” He said at last. A solution was a damned understatement. He needed an exorcism at this point. But it would do his situation more harm than good if he were to ever admit that.
Ahkari hummed, her ears twitching, “A vague answer.”
John glanced at her, unamused, “A necessary one.”
That, at least, seemed to amuse her, “Fair enough.” She leaned back slightly, her tail flicking against the snow-dusted crate, "This one will not pry further, then. A man is entitled to his secrets."
John nodded once, grateful for the reprieve. The fewer questions, the better.
The Khajiit, for their part, seemed content to let the silence linger. They exchanged quiet words in their own tongue, their voices low and melodic. He ignored most of it, focusing instead on the fire and the faint hope that the storm would break soon.
But the storm showed no signs of relenting. The wind howled through the cliffs, carrying with it a fresh wave of snow that threatened to bury the camp once more. John pulled his cloak tighter, his breath visible in the frigid air. He couldn’t stay here much longer. Every moment he delayed was another moment the Blade had to sink its claws deeper into him.
Ahkari seemed to sense his restlessness. She turned to him, her golden eyes reflecting the firelight, “The storm will pass, John of Riverwood. But not tonight. You would do well to rest while you can.”
John met her gaze, his expression unreadable, “I don’t have the luxury of waiting.”
Ahkari’s ears twitched, her tail flicking idly, “Even the strongest warrior cannot fight the elements. You will find no shelter out there, not in this.”
Kharjo, who had been silent until now, spoke up, his voice a low rumble, “The Vigilants will still be there when the storm passes. And if they are not, then they were not worth finding.”
John glanced at the large Khajiit, surprised by the bluntness of his words. There was a wisdom in them, though, one that John couldn’t ignore. He exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the cold air, “Maybe you’re right.”
Ahkari nodded, satisfied, “Then it is settled. You will stay the night. In the morning, we will see what the storm has left us.”
John frowned, glancing at the Khajiit around him. They had no reason to trust him.
His fingers flexed near his belt, not quite reaching for the Ebony Blade, but feeling its weight in more than just steel. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, though no less firm. “Why?”
Ahkari’s ears twitched, her tail curling around her legs as she regarded him with something between amusement and patience, “Why does the sun rise? Why does the snow fall? Some things simply are.”
John’s gaze flickered to Kharjo, who gave a low chuckle, “Khajiit know the value of a traveler’s debt. You share fire, you share warmth, and one day, perhaps, the road will return the kindness.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. It made sense, in a way. A practical kindness, personal honor, not blind charity. He understood transactions better than gifts, and this? This was something he could understand.
“Thank you, I’ll take you up on the offer.”
It barely took a minute before he was already asleep.
…
A/N: Dawnstar and sleeping. Name me a worse combination.
Commissioned by: brutalcrab
