Riverwood

Dorthe keeps running with everything she has, never looking back.

She knows she should have listened to her papa and mama. Yet when she looked at the tree line which separates Riverwood and the pine woods surrounding the town, that voice of her curiosity whispered the honeyed words of great adventures waiting for her.

Well, it is not her fault that life in Riverwood is so boring! Her mama always made her do those lame house choirs. And whenever she wanted to help her papa with his smithing, maybe making a sword or an axe he simply laughed and messed with her hair, only letting her stay behind and watch him working on his projects.

On top of this, what is wrong with her acting like those boys in the town? Her mama keeps telling her to act more like a girl. But she sees nothing wrong with her current self. Acting like a normal girl is just boring! She wants to play with them properly too!

So, with her curiosity overcoming her rationality—the adults warned her to keep clear of the forest all the time—Dorthe used the opportunity her parents were busy to slip out of their sights so as to venture deep into the forest, thinking of all the funs she could have.

Oh, how wrong she was. Not only did she get lost, she also saw it: the monster in the tales which her mama tells her every night before her bedtime. Its sharp yellow eyes stared into her soul with its fangs bare, letting the red fluid dripping from the corners of its scarred mouth. When it stepped out of one of the tree shades, there was no sound coming from her throat. She did the only thing she could as she saw the ghastly hunger flashing through the eyes directing at her:

She started to run, as fast as she could, get away from the monstrosity.

Only for her world to shatter as she breaks through the tree line, and come to face the rocky base of the snow mountain that holds an ancient Nordic tomb on its very crest, overlooking the entire town from there.

Her burning shoulders rising up and down. Her desperately aching lungs gasp for large gulps of air. Her legs tremble, aching. Her chest aching. Her entire body aching.

Dorthe let out a mute shriek, frozen in her spot as her ears pick up the dreadful footsteps that has been chasing after her. Shaking, she slowly turns around, wide terrified eyes peering at the whole glory of the monster's appearance. Black fur covering its entire body, excluding a few spots. The head of a wolf, with claws and legs, yet its body is that of a human.

A werewolf. Fearsome hunters of the night. And its inhuman growl reaches her ears, paralyzing her very core with an overwhelming fear that she has never experienced before.

"Prey..." the monster snarls deeply. "Nowhere... to... run... Fresh... flesh...!"

Curse! Why won't her body move?! She needs to run! She needs to return to her parents' arms, to tell them how regret she is for not listening to them, for not being a good daughter! She... She does not want to die here...

"P-Please... anyone out there... Divines, please...! I w-wanna live...! M-Mama... P-P-Papa!"

The monster lunges at her with its wide-open mouth, showing its bloody teeth, making her close her tearful eyes and wait for her seemingly certain end.

Only for a blaring metal-smacking crack resounding throughout the woods. Promptly, she opens her eyes, slacked-jaw as her supposedly doom is inverted, as she witnesses a man spreads out a... isn't he holding the skillet pan that her papa has been working on these past few days?

And just where has that monster gone to?

It is not until a moment or two that she hears the sounds of trees breaking down, which she snaps her head to it, finally dropping her lower jaw as the werewolf soars through the air, mars the soil with its body and crashes through several more pines before finally stopping.

Not believing in her eyes, she turns back to the newcomer. Soon, she feels the hopefulness comes back inside her heart, with the man offers her the biggest grin he got, along a big thumb up.

"Everything is alright now," the man claims, "for the Frying Pan Hero is finally here!"

====================

It took him almost an hour to reach the tree line after his interesting conversation with Death and another three hours to spot the first sight of the small town situated right at the bank of the White River—the same river stretches almost half of Skyrim—by the named of Riverwood.

In all honesty, he would have arrived much earlier if it was not for the prosthetic eyeball that just keeps messing with his sense of direction, as it spent most of his time travelling calibrate, and got his body accept the new part installed in it, precisely the nanomachines within him. Putting things simply, Michael would describe them as quite overprotective; one of the two key reasons to why he always survives through even the most life-threatening situations in his life.

For some reason, he keeps getting a feeling someone has been laughing whenever he hit a pine, all because his sight kept spinning like a bowling ball during the damned calibration. For Christ's sake, just when he was starting to get used to seeing with a missing eye too!

Having ranted enough, Michael starts to notice the clear differences between this Skyrim and his daughter's favourite Skyrim: the scale. According to his hazy memory of the game, Riverwood... is kind of small, compact, sandwiched between the great river and the great mountains, with only a dozen or so people living in it.

This Riverwood, however, is an entirely different story. Approximately ten times bigger than the game's counterpart. Ringed by the vast pine woodland with potential to expand further. What is more, the town's current position is enough to house at least a hundred. While the number seems too low to be considered a town, it is sufficient to be classified as one during medieval period.

It goes without saying that this Riverwood is full of potential, should one invest aptly; being close to the border, and a stopping point along the road to the commercial heart of Skyrim, Whiterun.

To be honest, Michael has enough fortune to turn Skyrim's economy upside down—his net worth on Earth is a topic he would rather not discuss now—the prospect of growing this town into a little Whiterun is all but appealing to him.

There is a slight issue, though. He has money—but he does not trust himself enough to use them properly; all the more when he is more than capable to break the entire continent's economy if he wants to. If Death converted his bank account only, it is fine. Yet she deliberately irritated the man by converting all of his net worth.

Considering what are currently dwelling inside him, the number effortlessly go as far as thousands of billions of Septim. For the first time in his life, money frightens him.

"Yup. That's got to be the reason," Michael mutters to himself, eyes twitching. "This must be the way she pays back for all the times I ended up in her space. It must be it, for sure... There cannot be any other explanation for this, since I only earned around 5% of the overall net worth."

Unbeknown to Michael, Death is having a face-splitting grin on her face as she watches the man struggling on dealing with the out-of-this-world amount of money he is currently possessing.

"Heh. I had a scold from God, but it was nothing compared to the fun I am having~."

Gods and their ever-so petty revenges and pranks must be a common theme.

Either way, Michael has plans to invest in the town in the near future. Until then his priorities are making friends in high places, possibly somebody whom he can trust his money with might come along, seeking allies and creating a foothold in Skyrim.

Then there is the problem of the Civil War: The Empire or The Rebels?

From his point of view... no, he does not have, nor recall enough info to pick a side; yet. But one thing he is well-aware, this is a civil war he cannot stay neutral. More people die basically means more souls for Alduin to devour.

Another priority of his: end the Civil War as soon as possible once it truly starts.

Finally reaching the town's perimeter, Michael heads through the open gate. It does not take him long to receive stares from the local. Some regarding him cautiously; not that he faults them since even with him washing off the dried blood on his body; he cannot say the same with his clothes, though. Still, the majority views him with undisguised curiousness.

Standing almost 2 meters tall—with 5 centimeters short—here and back on Earth, Michael usually becomes the center of attention, standing out whenever he walks around, alongside his imposing jacked figure and the pronounced scars on his face and his neck. Such a thing is usual.

Michael takes a breath, observing the peaceful lives going on within Riverwood with a light smile on his face. An outdoor forge connecting to the house, near the town gate, displaying varieties of tools and small-sized weapons; a bearded man is working attentively as Michael observes. Facing the workshop on the opposite side of the path is a two-story building used for trading, basing on the sign. Down the path, a small inn—which for some reason he wants to tear it down.

He ignores it, for now. The day is still clear, but starts showing signs of the evening approaching. He glances at the workshop and the trader, before deciding heading to the former first.

The craftmanship got his attention, and his interest.

As Michael heads to the forge, he decides not to interrupt the busy man, who is working on what seems to be a skillet pan, and silently browses the good being displayed on the wall. He rubs his chin, examining the tools thoroughly. With a random dagger of his choice, he proceeds to make a cut on his thumb. A clean one, which heals instantly with a nod of approval.

"Nice," Michael comments with an impressed grin, placing the dagger back its place. "Very nice craftmanship, indeed."

"Oh? I didn't realize there's a customer," the smith voices, getting Michael's attention as he looks back, puts the seemingly finished skillet pan on the nearby workbench. "My apologises. I did not notice you there, my friend."

"It's quite alright," Michael assures. "I didn't want to break your focus in the first place."

The smith let out a hearty laugh, then eyes him, from top to bottom. "I haven't seen you around in this part of Skyrim," he remarks casually.

"I am indeed new to this place." Michael extends his right hand. "Michael Stone, at your humble service; call me Mike if you want to. A pleasure to be your acquaintance."

"Same to me. Call me Alvor." Alvor takes Michael's hand, with the two giving each other a firm handshake before releasing their respective hand. "How may I help you, Michael? What are you looking for? Anything specific? Or do you wish to commission something?"

"Well, considering I met some... unpleasant folks during my travel, I'll definitely need something to make self-defence less messy." Michael gestures to his clothes. "You know what I'm getting at. What do you recommend for somebody my size?"

Alvor nods thoughtfully. "I might have something for you. And, bandits?"

"Tried to rob me while they were drunk," Michael deadpans. "I didn't kill them. But that did not stop me from crippling those morons for the rest of their lives, though."

"That certainly explains the blood." Alvor laughs. "Okay. Hmm. Let's see. You're one big fellow, so you might need something that reliably compliments your size. I think there is—"

"A-Alvor! Alvor!"

An anxious cry breaks the two out of their conversation. Michael unconsciously tenses his hands, as a woman hurriedly exits the house and darts to them, worried tears forming around her eyes. She leaps into Alvor's arms, shaken.

Michael senses a quick pulse in his socket—which prompts him to tilt his head to the direction of the forest with his eyes narrowing, his brows lowering to a near-unnoticeable frown.

"Calm down, Sigrid. Breathe," Alvor says soothingly, grabbing both her shoulders gently. "What got you so worked up all of a sudden, my love? Did that dog eat your chicken again?"

"H-Have you seen Dorthe?" Sigrid asks hopefully.

"Dorthe?" Alvor frowns. "I thought she was with you the whole time?"

"I-I don't know!" Sigrid exclaims. "I was too busy with dinner. B-But when I turned around, I did not see her anymore!"

"Maybe she's around here somewhere? Have you checked yet?"

"I did! I looked for her, asked everybody before going to home to check again," Sigrid answers, gradually growing tenser. "A-A merchant told me sh-she was heading to the forest. I didn't believe her, so I k-kept looking for her..."

"Shh. Calm down, my love," Alvor soothes. "Shor's bones, that girl...! Look, stay here. I'll get my hammer and head to the forest."

"B-But... there're rumors of werewolves, Alvor! At least take someone else with you!"

"No time to waste, love. She's out there. She needs me." Alvor turns to Michael. "My apologizes, Michael. But we need to... wait, where is he?"

Stunned, Alvor darts his eyes around, soon realizing the man is nowhere to be found. What? He heard not a thing. Just how—

"Alvor," Sigrid speaks up, pointing at the workbench by the forge. "Where's the skillet pan you have been working on?"

...

There are reasons to why he grabbed the piping-hot skillet pan instead of something with a killing edge like a knife, or perhaps a dagger. Knowing how he works, the last thing he needs right now is a traumatized child, when he faces whatever danger that is threatening them. How did he know it is a child that is in danger?

That strange piece of metal seems to have something to do with it.

On a more childish note, it has been some while since he last fought with a frying pan, or a skillet pain in this case. He merely wants to relive one of those good old days. When he and his faithful frying pain terrorized criminals around the city. Because why the bloody hell not? When you are to work in that kind of job, you need something to entertain yourself.

Dashing through the forest with a speed no normal human could possibly achieve, Michael starts picking up the familiar musky scent. Similar to the pup in that room, only this is... corrupted? He cannot put it in proper words, but he knows it feels wrong. And why is there human scent mixed into this as well—oh.

"Of course." He recognizes that smell everywhere. "Were-bloody-wolves."

Pushing forward, within seconds he stumbles upon what he has been seeking, closing in the hairy back of the beast, seeing the glimpse of a frightened little girl frozen before the thing. As it lunges at her, Michael picks up his pace. An acrid memory flashing through his mind. Michael hardens the muscles in his left hand—the hand holding the skillet pan—to rock.

Not happening on his watch!

He jumps, and delivers an ear-splitting blow to the side of the werewolf's snout, sending the beast flying through the air and crashing through several pines, taking them down also.

He could have put more strength into the last strike. But he has no need for a pile of bloody flesh and bones and bits of its brain here and there to traumatize the girl any further.

Dealing with parents' complaints of the aftermath is definitely not what he looks forward to.

Turning his attention to the girl, he is amused by the face she makes while snapping her head to the direction of the werewolf, then back to him, open-mouthed. Promptly, he let the biggest grin he could muster form across his face and gives her a reassured thumb up at the girl, whose teary eyes staring at him, lost for words.

"Everything is alright now," he assures, "for the Frying Pan Hero is finally here!"

For a moment, there is only silence. Then the next, a small giggle from the girl. She rubs her red eyes, sniffs a few times before smiling ear-to-ear in frank relief.

"Wh-What a silly name, mister..." she remarks quietly, wiping away her tears. "What k-kind of a cool-looking hero named himself a-after a frying pan? Even papa isn't th-that lame."

Michael shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, I just that suck at naming," he says with his tone dry, earning another giggle. He exhales as her mood improves, prompting him to tenderize his gaze. "Joking aside, I really meant it when I said everything is alright now. We're getting out of here, okay?"

The girl sniffs, nods eagerly. Which Michael smiles and pats her head. In a moment, he promptly picks up and carries her in his right arm. The girl immediately wraps her arms around his neck, leaning into him as she buries her face into his chest, conveniently making herself comfortable.

"What's your name, lass?" he asks, getting her attention with her looks up to him and his grin. "I am Michael. But you can call me Mike, like how I offered your papa."

"Y-You know papa, mister?"

"Just had the pleasure to meet him minutes ago. Your parents are worried about you, you know, lass. Your mama nearly had a heart attack, from what I... heard."

"I'm... sorry. I... just wanted to have some fun. I-It's not my fault the town is too boring!"

"I know." Michael just chuckles. "Kids wouldn't be kids without getting themselves into troubles. Heck, I've had my shares of them during my childhood too! Then again, the important bit—" he offers an understanding beam "—is the lessons you learned each time. So, did you learn anything important?"

In response, the girl gives him some bashful blobs of her head, clearly embarrassed.

"More... prey... Interference..."

As soon as Michael hears the growl, he raises a brow, somewhat surprised, as he glances at where the werewolf is, behind the trees it took down.

Their eyes meet, with the creature deepens its growl.

"Well—" Michael snorts "—you certainly are a bit more resilient than those I faced. But nothing I cannot handle. Well, almost nothing."

His comment seems to tick this particular werewolf off. "They... not... true... hunters... We... are... Accepted... the... inner... calling...!"

"By hunting a defenseless child? Sure. Very... hunter-like of you," he notes sarcastically.

"Prey... is... prey... No.... discrimination..." The werewolf narrows its shining eyes. "No... before... me... not... a... prey... Dangerous... Monster...? Needs... more..."

With another growl, the hairs all over the werewolf's torso stand up. It bends its back backwards, extending its lengthy arms, as it unleashes a thunderous howl, shaking the earth around it.

As the girl winces and shuts her eyes, Michael continues keeping his leveled gaze on the creature; before long he picks up more approaching heavy footsteps, all the same smell as it.

"Just when I'm starting to wonder where is the rest," he says absent-mindedly—before ducking a slash aiming at his head and heel-kicking his assailant to its snout, breaking its jaw.

Just as the werewolf that tried to ambush him is out cold, growls resounding throughout the whole section of the forest. In no time, he and the girl are surrounded. The pack appears from the forest as Michael turns to face them, his back facing the base of the mountain.

His nose wrinkles, catching an acquainted odour.

"Alcohol?" he muses, realizes something. "Say, wouldn't you happen to come across a bunch of incapacitated drunkards? Dressed like bandit-wannabes?"

"Free... food... good... for... pack..." one growls out, baring its bloody teeth.

Michael stares at the pack with half-lidded eyes, deadpanned. Pursing his lips into a thin line, he exhales through his nose and quickly counts the number of werewolves. Right. Around a dozen or so; should not be too hard to handle under usual circumstances. Although, both fighting, and protecting someone together is not exactly idea. All the more, when traumatizing a child is a big no-no. Options, options. How should he approach this?

And he hates the way her arms are trembling around his neck. In that case, this is going to get a bit messy soon.

"...I've yet to get your name, by the way."

The girl blinks, momentarily forgetting her fear, looks up. "Y-Yes...?"

"Your name, lass," Michael repeats. "What is your name?"

"It's... Dorthe, mister."

"Alright. I want you to listen to me very carefully," he starts gently. "Close your eyes, try to block them noises if you can, and hold onto me very, very tightly. I promise I'll get you back to your parents soon. So, can you do that for me, Dorthe?"

Gulping nervously, Dorthe nods. "I-I'll try, mister..."

"Good lass." Michael grins. "You'll be alright. I promise this'll be over before you know—"

A howl, sending unsettling chills down his spines. Wide eyes, he tilts his head over his shoulder, only to face a wide-open mouth with long sharp-edged teeth pouncing at him. As questions race within his mind, mainly asking how could he pathetically let himself ambushed like this, Michael merely mutters with a flattened stare.

"...Fuck."

Red blood is drawn, with a bloodcurdling scream fills the entire forest.

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