Eyes the color of frosted glass peered from beneath the errant strands of achromatic white hair that fell across the corner of his right eye as the lycan strode boldly through the halls of his kin and sought counsel among the gathered ranks of his kin who had found refuge in the ruins of the old keep on the fringe of Hjaalmarch.
Bare-chested and clad with nothing but a great gauntlet of beaten iron that encased the entirety of his right arm, fastened securely in place by leather straps that crisscrossed the length of his torso, he lifted his iron-clad hand and gave a mighty push against the aged door that barred his way into the depths of the keep where the echoes of his kins laughter and speech emanated. The light of the torches cast a pale shadow across his narrow features and sought to further accentuate the almost imperceptible curl of his upper lip that lay bare the elongated teeth whose tips protruded half a fingertip beyond his bottom lip.
Cross had spent far too much time in the most recent task laid upon him by the war council of his lupine brethren, clad in the filthy garb of humankind he had wandered the streets of a nearby town whose name the proud warrior had not even bothered to learn during his time spent amongst the common-folk and sought to learn something... anything... about the movements of the forces of the Silver Hand and their armed forces this deep within the reach.
Silence.
Eyes from amidst the weathered warriors who guided the hand of Hiricine's Sons all turned in unison to gaze upon the form of Cross as he thrust wide the doors of the antechamber and basked in the silence and scent of his kin which reached him even amid the musty smell of the old keep.
Icy orbs turned almost feral, the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly and he turned his head to gaze from each corner of the chamber to the other before settling his eyes upon the senior member of the order who sat seated in the center of the chamber.
"There's something here, Harl," the lycan muttered beneath his breath, his words accentuated by a low growl that rumbled in the center of his chest and became trapped in his throat. "I can smell it... something not natural... one of those pink-skins," he would have finished with a few sniffs that seemed to catch the air around him.
Though before the older warrior could muster an answer, he would have given a sharp wave of his hand. Slitted eyes would have drifted suspiciously to the dark-skinned woman who sat adjacent to one of the members of the feral brotherhood and he would have indicated her with an outstretched hand.
There was something almost... primitive... ancient and powerful about the magic around here. It was so potent that he could almost taste it in the air. And there was something about her mannerisms... her unusual eyes and even the unique style of her hair that, had his primal mind been so focused upon the irritation that still clung to his thoughts, both at the prospect of a newcomer not-lycan in their midst and regarding the time spent in their cities, that he suspected he would have been quite consumed by her unusual appearance.
"Leave us," he would have growled, though several amongst the gathering would have sought to protest. He would have silenced them with a stiff wave of his hand.
"Curs! I said leave! I'll spare not a moments thought to any of your reasons that an outsider would be amongst these halls... leave me to decide her fate myself." He would have growled, eyes drifting to study her and her appearance from top to bottom... and times, perhaps, lingering a tad too long in some areas.
"Speak, outlander," he would have muttered as those about him would have shouldered past him, "I am not long on patience..."<|im_end|>
After the civil war between the Stormcloaks and the Imperials came to a simmer, Fort Snowhawk was taken over by a coven of necromancers. Tol'vir of the Dunes, the enigmatic high chief of Hircine's Sons, bid that his brothers commandeer the old structure and purge it of the necromancers. Many were lost in the battle which resulted in Hircine's Sons being routed. Since Fort Snowhawk was such a bottleneck between Morthal and Solitude, it was crucial that it be in their possession. It was then that Tol'vir bid his second in command, Theodane, to seek out a redguard mage named Ohm'mali Qun whose magical prowess was revered among the alteration community. She was young, however, experienced, and the tragedy she experienced fed her flame for vengeance.
After her compensation was arranged, Ohmali single-handedly annulled the lives of every last necromancer that drew breath within the fort. From then on she was conscripted to aid the Sons in their attacks, offering healing and hindrance spells in tandem with their claws and fangs.
Some months later, Ohmali was invited to attend an obligatory moot among the Sons. Tol'vir sent his missionaries to Markarth, Winterhold and Dawnstar, requesting the presence of his most revered ilk to share in his concern. Each arrived within three days of the missives being sent, all of different creeds and colors. One of the old werewolves, a wind-burnt and weathered Breton, ambled into the hold greeted by his kind with a clasp of the forearm. Though as a human he was wizened, the Breton was a powerhouse when barreling into an enemy on all fours.
A litany of others joined in the mood -a barrel-chested, red-headed Nord, a set of twins and a platinum-blond Imperial woman whose mane was festooned with elegant, pressed glass pins fashioned to resembled nightshade.
Inside of the atrium, the scent of steam-soaked meat permeated about the chamber. The Imperial woman sat in her mate's lap upon a refurbished Dwemer throne; they lovingly fondled each other, much to the chagrin of Theodane who grimaced in disgust. He quickly exchanged glances with Ohmali who stood still than a statue well across the room, her eyes as sharp and dark as the backbone of an ebony sword. As a pugilist, Theodane was uninterested in the trees of magic and 'sorcery'; in addition, there was something queerly off putting about this woman that chilled him to the proverbial bone.
It was when Cross ambled in that Theodane began to panic. He came to learn all too quickly of Ohmali's temper and the virtually cataclysmic events that followed, thus, he sought to keep peace between the two parties.
"Cross ...!" Theodane growled. He glanced at Tol'vir, who was draped in thick, colorful robes with the patterns of the Al'kir, as if asking permission to advance. Tol'vir said nothing and continued to smoke his pipe, giving Theodane reason to press on. "Still your tongue, you fool," he continued, "You've been gone a moon to long to be barking commands ... know your place."
Ohmali simply raised one of her eyebrows, almost dramatically. "Your patience and its capacity are no concern of mine," she hissed, "I have come to grown close to your ilk over the passing months, but you ... you are no kin of mine. Sheath your fangs or, may the Fates bare witness, I will end you."<|im_end|>