Meeting

     K'tarin listened to Twilight's soft singing. When she ended, he nodded
to himself. It was a warior's song, and stirred his heart. It told of harsh
land and hard victory. Suddenly, he was keenly aware of the battlefield upon
which he now stood.

> "K'tarin, I believe I detect the approach of some of your bretheren.  Perhaps
> your place is with them.  Perhaps they come to dissuade me; if so, it would be
> best for you to speak with them, for I will not brook interference, be it ever so
> well-meant.

     The Werre's eyes shifted from the warmage to the horizon to the south-
west. Indeed, there was a subtle dust rising there. Though Werre are adept at
traveling stealthily over sand and dust, the storm had shifted the land, and
all was loose and apt to cloud the air. Also, they seemed in a great hurry.
They were too far off to make their number or form. The hair on his neck
prickled. Though he could not count their number, he could discern their
formation.
     "They do not come to dissuade."
     Alduin came up to his traveling companion, but the dark man seemed not
to notice him. With brow furrowed, he sprang forward, charging off into the
sand toward the oncomers.
     "I'm happy to see you too," muttered Alduin.

     The men were more dead than alive. Though they moved quickly, they did
so with forced strides and twisted faces, and though their formation was
perfect, they were deathly weary. The invaders had dug themselves from their
sandy graves, much to the dismay of the men...except their to'khar. He was
harboring a wild hope, a hope he had no right to have. Some of the legends
had been lost among the younger ones, but the old Werre had long memories.
Though the to'khar was by no means old, he was a stout traditionalist, and he
knew all legends had roots in truth.
     Now a cloud of dust came at them with speed. It's maker was hard to see
in the ruddy light, but all loosed their axes and straightened their
backs. It was but one person, and though they be worn nearly past enduring,
they deemed themselves an easy match.
     The leader nearly dropped his axe in surprise. The dervish was no
foreigner, but a Werre. His manner and axe was enough, but the leader knew
in his bones this was indeed a brother Werre. Even so, he did not sheathe
his massive weapon.
     "Aure Mehana!"
     The approaching figure raised his hand and came to stop a yard from the
to'khar. He replied in kind.
     "Aure Mehana! The sun smiles on our meeting!"
     The leader grunted. "But not too broadly. There are Shirm walking among
our dead."
     K'tarin studied the older man's weathered features. Strong bones and the
curved nose common to more northern redguards. His eyes were not common, but
bright beads that were studying the newcomer in kind. K'tarin held those eyes
for a long moment, then gave a passing glance at the three others. Each was
stiff and erect, but weariness tugged at the shoulders, turned down the
mouths. The youngest looked especially hard for his trek through the storm.
     "Yes, there are Foreigners here, and I am with them. I speak for them."
     K'tarin gave no further explanation, and the to'khar gave a slight nod.
The others stirred restlessly.
     "They stepped upon the Grey Mound."
     K'tarin put his fist to his breast. "And I am to blame. I was leading
the Shirm at that time."
     Again, a lengthy silence.
     Finally the boy could stand aside no more.
     "You have led Shirm into the Battlefield and straight to the Black
Fortress! What--?"
     The to'khar's eyes hardly shifted, and the Werre flanking the boy each
placed a heavy hand on his shoulders. He quieted at once, but kept a sullen
face. It was clear his behavior would no longer be tolerated.
     "What have you to say?" The leader's voice was almost conversational.
     "Only that in the beginning the Guardian Citadel was not our intended
destination. Need drives us there. The Power--" He suddenly decided not to
mince words. "--the First stirs again, and has a new Master. A dragon has
appeared in the sky, and the dead walk again. The Blood and the Heart are
nigh and the Second Death may be at hand! We go to the Citadel now to end the
Heart finally, though that too was not our original purpose."
     The leader theathed his weapon, and the others did the same. He placed
his hand on K'tarin's arm.
     "This is dire news indeed! We had become Hunters to stop the Shirm from
stirring evils, but it seems evil has already raised its head. We now endorse
your mission." It was clear the youth did not, but neither did he protest.
"But I am concerned. A task whose goal changes becomes a dangerous task. The
mind may still be set upon the first goal and so obscure the second. Are all
resolved to face the First? And where is the Bloodstone?"
     At this, K'tarin frowned. "I know not if all are resolved, but the
Bloodbearer is, as is his closest companion. The woman who began this whole
quest is also resolved, but for reasons of her own, I think."
     He paused, lost in thought for a moment.
     "And I will enter in," he continued, "if my charge wishes to continue,
although I guess he will not."
     For once, the leader grew puzzled.
     "Charge?"
     "Yes. A master of words. He hails from Skyrim, and was scribing the
feats of the party in its quest."
     Something about the to'khar's eyes changed. An edge of...what? Fear?
Anxiety? He cleared his throat.
     "A scribe?" he whispered. Then he spoke the name as if its very sound
hurt his ears. "Alduin..?"
     K'tarin nodded warily. "You know him?"
     The leader's shoulders fell. A khajiit -- K'tarin hadn't noticed her
before -- lept forward. Her eyes were bright, and the wear of the storm
seemed to fall away from her. Her face boadened into a grin.
     "*The* Alduin dor Lammoth? That old rascal! He's still jaunting about
on wild adventures?"
     K'tarin was taken aback. "Yes...he is with us."
     She supressed a giggle and immediately walked off at a brisk pace with
the Werre in tow.

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Alduin dor Lammoth