“You're a werewolf, apparently!” Shevawna said, looking him over. “And you think I'm wrong for practicing magic. At least I never gave myself over to Hircine – wait, you're a minion of a Daedric Prince and clearly not the only one in Jorrvaskr either, and you had a problem with me??”
“I'm sorry!” Vilkas cried. “I didn't... look, I didn't know about Hircine when I took the blood. I just wanted to be a better, stronger warrior, Skjor made it sound like a gift!”
“Hircine would say it is,” Shevawna managed to say. “Peryite claims disease is a blessing, that doesn't mean we'd want to get sick ourselves! You chose to be a manbeast?”
“You worship all sorts of weird gods and you have a problem with werewolves?” Vilkas snapped.
“No,” Shevawna sighed. “No, not as such – look, we worship Hircine, he's one of the old gods, we call on him when we hunt, we tell tales of him. But Storihbeg, King of the Manbeasts, he's... he's dangerous. Wild. We fear him, Vilkas. We fear dying at his hands, but we fear more being turned pelt-side-out. We fear losing our humanity, becoming beasts – pariahs. Prey. And to hear you chose this, half of Jorrvaskr chose this – gods, Vilkas, how many of you are there?? Are you going to make me one??”
“No!” Vilkas cried. “Eight, no. If anyone doesn't need the beast blood, it's you. It's just the Circle, Shevawna. Me, Farkas, Skjor, Aela and Kodlak. No one else has the blood, no one else is even supposed to know about it. You can't tell anyone. Please.”
Shevawna was half tempted to run back to Jorrvaskr and shriek the entire thing to Ria, Olfina and Athis, but something stayed the panic. This was the first halfway civil conversation she'd had with Vilkas since she'd met him. For the first time, the power was in her direction and she rather liked it this way.
“All right,” Shevawna agreed, deciding not to kill him after all. This was far too interesting to pass up. “I don't tell anyone. You stop being an Orc's backside to me. And in the mean time, you can watch my back in this place while I retrieve the piece of Wuuthrad and claim the glory.”
Vilkas hesitated, then looked down and actually laughed. “Aye, I deserved that, didn't I? All right, witch, you have your bargain. I'm not promising eternal friendship or anything, but I will at least treat you with a basic respect and courtesy while you're a Shield-Sister in good standing. And I'll watch your back in here. Eight know there's probably more where they came from. Damn Silver Hand.”
The Silver Hand? Shevawna had never heard of them – or had she? Now she thought of it, yes she had, there'd been a group of warriors with silver weapons calling themselves that who'd tried to attack one of the other Redoubts, claiming they were going to cleanse the Forsworn stain from the Reach for good. Half of them killed, half taken prisoner and put to death in increasingly brutal and creative ways by the Matriarch, quite possibly eaten in a feast to Namira, and one terrified one left til last, forced to watch his comrades die and then told by the Redoubt's Briarheart to go back to his friends and tell them the Forsworn would root them all out and destroy them in ways that made what he'd just seen look like a lover's caress if any of them ever set foot in the Reach again. There'd been no trouble since.
“Who are the Silver Hand?” Shevawna asked. “Are they like the Vigil of Stendarr, do they hunt Daedra worshippers?”
Vilkas laughed bitterly at that. “They wish they were. No, they're like bandits, worse than bandits. They say they're werewolf hunters, but they don't just hunt and put down feral beasts, no. They hunt innocent people who never asked to be infected, or even willing wolves living peacefully and lawfully, and they don't just kill cleanly. They imprison and torture. They're not good people. And they found out Jorrvaskr had werewolves and now they've made it their mission to hunt us down. They nearly had me today if you'd not turned up.”
Re: The Witch of Jorrvaskr 6.6
“I'm sorry!” Vilkas cried. “I didn't... look, I didn't know about Hircine when I took the blood. I just wanted to be a better, stronger warrior, Skjor made it sound like a gift!”
“Hircine would say it is,” Shevawna managed to say. “Peryite claims disease is a blessing, that doesn't mean we'd want to get sick ourselves! You chose to be a manbeast?”
“You worship all sorts of weird gods and you have a problem with werewolves?” Vilkas snapped.
“No,” Shevawna sighed. “No, not as such – look, we worship Hircine, he's one of the old gods, we call on him when we hunt, we tell tales of him. But Storihbeg, King of the Manbeasts, he's... he's dangerous. Wild. We fear him, Vilkas. We fear dying at his hands, but we fear more being turned pelt-side-out. We fear losing our humanity, becoming beasts – pariahs. Prey. And to hear you chose this, half of Jorrvaskr chose this – gods, Vilkas, how many of you are there?? Are you going to make me one??”
“No!” Vilkas cried. “Eight, no. If anyone doesn't need the beast blood, it's you. It's just the Circle, Shevawna. Me, Farkas, Skjor, Aela and Kodlak. No one else has the blood, no one else is even supposed to know about it. You can't tell anyone. Please.”
Shevawna was half tempted to run back to Jorrvaskr and shriek the entire thing to Ria, Olfina and Athis, but something stayed the panic. This was the first halfway civil conversation she'd had with Vilkas since she'd met him. For the first time, the power was in her direction and she rather liked it this way.
“All right,” Shevawna agreed, deciding not to kill him after all. This was far too interesting to pass up. “I don't tell anyone. You stop being an Orc's backside to me. And in the mean time, you can watch my back in this place while I retrieve the piece of Wuuthrad and claim the glory.”
Vilkas hesitated, then looked down and actually laughed. “Aye, I deserved that, didn't I? All right, witch, you have your bargain. I'm not promising eternal friendship or anything, but I will at least treat you with a basic respect and courtesy while you're a Shield-Sister in good standing. And I'll watch your back in here. Eight know there's probably more where they came from. Damn Silver Hand.”
The Silver Hand? Shevawna had never heard of them – or had she? Now she thought of it, yes she had, there'd been a group of warriors with silver weapons calling themselves that who'd tried to attack one of the other Redoubts, claiming they were going to cleanse the Forsworn stain from the Reach for good. Half of them killed, half taken prisoner and put to death in increasingly brutal and creative ways by the Matriarch, quite possibly eaten in a feast to Namira, and one terrified one left til last, forced to watch his comrades die and then told by the Redoubt's Briarheart to go back to his friends and tell them the Forsworn would root them all out and destroy them in ways that made what he'd just seen look like a lover's caress if any of them ever set foot in the Reach again. There'd been no trouble since.
“Who are the Silver Hand?” Shevawna asked. “Are they like the Vigil of Stendarr, do they hunt Daedra worshippers?”
Vilkas laughed bitterly at that. “They wish they were. No, they're like bandits, worse than bandits. They say they're werewolf hunters, but they don't just hunt and put down feral beasts, no. They hunt innocent people who never asked to be infected, or even willing wolves living peacefully and lawfully, and they don't just kill cleanly. They imprison and torture. They're not good people. And they found out Jorrvaskr had werewolves and now they've made it their mission to hunt us down. They nearly had me today if you'd not turned up.”