Chapter Text
Avril takes a deep breath to steady herself, looking around her room to make sure she isn't forgetting anything. That would be just her luck, wouldn't it? Set off on her Proving only to realize she left her breeches at home.
She mentally relives every lesson, every instruction, and all of her training that her father bequeathed to her. High Chief Garrett is a strong, burly brute of a man and there is a reason he is both loved and feared among the Silver Hand. He has never, ever lost a fight.
The number of wolves slaughtered by her father is a constant shadow over Avril's head. Hundreds of supernatural canine heads on pikes trailing along behind her every step of the way. Until today. Today is the day she proves herself.
Today is the day she kills her first werewolf.
Avril secures the latch on her pack and allows herself a moment of pause. This is it...
A memory drifts through her mind, bringing a smile to her face. Her first training session.
"As a Silver Hand, you must learn the basics of each weapon before choosing a specialization. You must be resourceful, for you may not always have the comfort of a familiar weapon. Sometimes you must use what you have at your disposal; you must be prepared for this."
Avril nods excitedly, bobbing on her heels with impatience. This is it! She finally gets to train with real weapons!
Garrett takes a silver sword from the table nearby, where several specially crafted weapons are laid out in preparation for use. A greatsword, a warhammer, a war axe, several daggers, a greataxe, a spiked mace. There is one weapon notably absent from the display.
"Father? Won't I be learning how to shoot a bow?" Avril asks, eyeing the set of weapons each forged with a signature enchanted silver that is especially deadly to werewolves.
"Maybe someday, pip," Garrett says, grinning at his dark-haired daughter. "For now, you must learn to train with blades. If you cannot find your match with the blades, I give you my word I will let you attempt a bow. Okay?"
Avril nods rapidly and beams. "Okay, Father!"
"Good girl. Now, then, let me show you the battle ready stance..."
Avril is pulled from her reverie by a knock at the door. She turns and quirks a brow. "Come in."
Jon steps halfway through the door, a hand over his eyes and a wide grin on his face. "Are you decent, little sis?"
Avril rolls her eyes and grabs a pillow from her bed to throw at him. He dodges it easily, even with his eyes covered, and laughs.
"Oh, come on. The uninitiated striking at the superior? Tsk tsk. That's bad form, even for you."
He dodges another pillow before Avril runs out of ammo and crosses her arms over her chest. "Come to wish me luck, O Wise One?"
Jon waves a hand dismissively. "Nah. Just making sure you didn't forget your trousers." He scans her up and down, nodding with satisfaction. "Seems to be in order. But, dear sister, those boots with that shirt? Bah, what am I to do with you?"
Avril snorts. "Oh, bite me, pighead."
Jon grins. "Gladly, so long as you remembered to wash this morning. Wouldn't want to sink my teeth into foul meat." He thinks a moment, then says, "You know, that might actually be a good wolf repellent."
Avril walks over and bops her brother over the head, earning a cackle from him. Jonathon is significantly taller than her, rather tall for a Breton really, and that matched with the black stubble along his chin and jaw is a dead give-away of their significant age difference. He is at least ten years older than her, and his Proving is long past.
The two siblings seem to sober after a few moments of good-hearted laughter, and Jon gives his sister a sincerely kind look. "Take care of yourself out there, sister. Don't forget anything Father or I have taught you. You'll need all the wisdom we've imparted on your meager little brain." He flicks her on the forehead and Avril grins affectionately.
"I'll be fine. I have Adrie, remember?" Avril says, pointing a thumb at the bow slung across her back.
Jon shrugs. "Eh, I suppose the old girl has her uses. She was made by an exceptionally impressive blacksmith, after all, and a rather handsome one at that. What, with his luscious black hair and devastating smile and unmatched charm and wit...."
"...and his insufferable arrogance and overly groomed ego," Avril interjects, smirking.
Jon grins. "Part of my charm, little sister. Watch yourself in the field. I'd hate to have to carve you out of a fur ball's gut."
With that, Jon pats his sister on the shoulder and exits the room. Avril takes another deep breath, closes her eyes a moment to mentally prepare herself... then sets out for Dustman's Cairn.
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The trek from Driftshade headquarters in the Pale to Dustman's Cairn in Whiterun Hold is long and arduous, but rather uneventful, save for a few Frostbite spiders and wolves (the non-supernatural kind, that is).
When the ancient stone mound comes into view, Avril lets out a breath. There are no horses nearby or any obvious signs of recent entrance. Hopefully she got here in time.
Once inside the musty crypt, she draws her bow and creeps through the main chamber, mindful of the black sarcophagi along the walls. It doesn't look like anyone has been here. The Companions of Jorrvaskr are not exactly the stealthy type; if one of those hulking brutes had plundered through here, Avril would know.
Avril silently stalks deeper and deeper into the Nordic tomb until she reaches the final chamber. She smiles to herself. The contacts were right; a shard of Wuuthrad is here.
After Ysgramor's death, Wuuthrad was shattered. How, exactly, Avril isn't sure, but she knows that the pieces were once kept and held sacred by the Companions, until the Silver Hand stole them and split them between the various groups across Skyrim, to ensure all of the pieces would never again fall into the hands of the Companions.
Ysgramor's march was glorious and the remains of his fabled weapon are definitely relics to be cherished, but the Companions lost their right to Wuuthrad when they slandered Ysgramor's name by making a deal with the Glenmoril witches in order to gain supernatural prowess. Ysgramor and his mighty weapon stood for honor and valor; the Companions are abominations that mock the very memory of him.
Avril steps up to the stone altar and carefully examines the pedestal upon which sits the shard of Wuuthrad. It's obviously a pressure plate. What it will do, Avril isn't sure, but she doesn't plan on finding out. She opens her coin purse and estimates the weight of the shard; too much or too little weight could activate the plate. She plucks five coins from the purse and weighs them in her hand, examining the shard. Wuuthrad was a hefty great axe, probably made of some pretty weighted metal. Five disks of pure gold should be about right.
She begins the very slow-going task of replacing the shard on the pedestal with the coins, not daring to breath lest she misstep and set off the trap.
With the coins in place and the shard tucked safely into her bag, she silently escapes the chamber, leaving the dormant draugr in the room undisturbed.
Avril creeps through the caverns of the crypt in search of a suitable place to lie in wait. There are several suitable places, really, but none with few enough draugr. It would tip off her quarries of her presence if she dispatched the draugr; after all, walking dead men don't die on their own. However, the Companions that enter this barrow are her test, and she must be the one to kill them. The draugr cannot do her work for her.
Her prowling is cut short, however, when she hears the grating of a portcullis.
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Vilkas crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, glaring through the stone bars of the portcullis at the whelp. "Now look what you've gotten yourself into. Hold on, let me find the release."
The man behind the bars smiles impishly like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and pockets the potions he had entered the alcove to collect. There was a lever there, how could he not pull it!?
Vilkas sighs and walks around into the corridor leading out of the large chamber. He can see the lever already. "Damn whelps," he grumbles to himself.
Just then, he picks up an odd scent. It's not the usual stench of undead corpses that permeates within these Nordic crypts. Something's off. There's another scent here, strong enough that is must be very recent.
"Hircine's flaming ass," he swears, lifting a hand to curl his fingers around the hilt of the greatsword strapped cross his back, but he already knows he won't make it far enough to draw it.
"Tsk tsk tsk. I wouldn't do that if I were you, pooch," Avril purrs.
Vilkas groans and slowly turns around to face his opponent. He places the odd smell as soon as he sees her.
Silverite.
Avril notices the wolf's nose twitch. "Don't like the smell of my specially crafted arrowheads? Oh, but I worked so very hard on them."
"I prefer the smell of Silver Hand blood. It's very appetizing," Vilkas quips, glaring at the Breton girl. Standing next to her, he would tower over her. From this distance, however, and in the dim light with her silverite arrows trained on him.. he has to admit she looks pretty lethal.
"I'm sure," she sneers. "Too bad yours is the only blood being spilled today."
With that, she lets the arrow fly. Much to her credit, she doesn't seem surprised when Vilkas catches the arrow by the shaft just before it meets its mark between his eyes.
"Nice try, mince meat," he growls, grinning wolfishly.
Avril smiles. "I never try, dog. I do."
Vilkas's smile fades when the poison coating the shaft starts seeping into his hand. He drops it as if it burned him, then charges at Avril. He doesn't reach her before the sleeping concoction takes effect, and the werewolf crumples to the ground, muttering muffled curses before he sputters out of consciousness.
Avril kneels before the wolf and turns him onto his back, brushing the stray tendrils of hair from his face. "Mm, you are rather lovely to look at. Sadly, I'm not into dogs."
Resigning to finish him off later, she steps into the other chamber and peers into the alcove where a very impatient-looking Nord leans against the wall. He straightens up quickly when he sees her.
"Where is Vilkas?" he demands, drawing his sword.
Avril grins. "Ooh, nice first question. Most people start with, 'who are you'. It seems rather stupid, really, but I suppose you can't expect much intelligence from wild dogs."
"Wild dogs?" he asks, not understanding. Avril lifts a brow.
"You don't know, do you? Wow, you must be fresh crop, then. You've stepped into a pit of vipers and you don't even realize what they are." Avril laughs and latches an arrow on her bowstring. "Oh well. It's irrelevant. You're going to die like the dog you would have become."
Avril lets off the shot and the arrow finds its mark in the Nord's skull, sending him crumpling to the ground. Before she can react, however, she's caught off guard by someone appearing behind her.
Vilkas bridles Avril with the arrow shaft and pulls her back against him, waiting until the poison seeps into her mouth. She grunts and smacks her head back, cracking the back of her skull against Vilkas's face and likely breaking his nose. He stumbles back, and Avril spits out the arrow, then spins around and aims to whack him over the head with her bow but misses and strikes the steel shoulder of his armor.
Avril knows the draught works fast and she won't have time to dispatch the wolf before it hits her and she passes out. She swears under her breath and flees toward the entrance to the crypt, screaming as loud as she can to stir the draugr in her wake. They ignore her in favor of the rabid Companion storming after her, blocking him off so he has to deal with them before he can pursue her.
Avril bursts through the heavy stone door and falls to her knees in the dirt, gasping as the draught weakens her muscles and urges her to stop, but she pulls herself up and forces her aching limbs to ascend the spiraling stone stairs and break for the sparse woods in the distance. She just barely reaches the tree line before she collapses into the brush, out cold.
Vilkas rushes out of the crypt and up the stairs, his mind still muggy from being poisoned. The Breton is nowhere to be found. The way she attempted to strike him, it didn't seem like the draught affected her, but her fleeing may have been a tip that she was afraid of falling unconscious. Vilkas cannot be sure. The girl is either long gone, or passed out somewhere in the tree line. He doesn't have time to search for her. He'll have his chance to seek vengeance.
But first... he must lay the body of the fallen new blood to rest.