There was something about riding on frosty Skyrim roads. The nearly forgotten ones, the kind that spread through the country like tree branches. The main roads might be safer, but not better than these provincial roads, the secret paths through forests and mountain valleys. One could be lost in meditation riding these roads and despite riding almost the whole night, the Nord woman seemed quite comfortable. Her eyes were still full of energy and scanning the horizon, looking for first rays of the rising sun. Even in the darkness of night, her eyes reflected the moons and showed themselves to be pale blue, the color of a fresh spring if it were to freeze over. The tip of her nose was pink from the cold, but the rest of her was warm, wrapped in fur over sturdy leather. One could only imagine what was beneath the outer layers, but woman was slim and perhaps underweight. Gwen, the white mare she rode on seemed to thank her for it.

Finally they came upon an outskirt of some town and saw an inn, and Gwen got her reigns pulled, with a gentle click of tongue from the rider. It was time to stop. Tying the horse outside, the woman entered the inn and curled her lips into a half smile, enjoying the moment of campfire warmth. The hall had stray drunks left as some iconic decorations of Skyrim. She missed this scene, the hour that no one can agree upon as being late or early, left over drunks still mumbling and upset they aren’t drunk enough still, and those who are properly wasted even more upset in their wasted dreams, or so it seemed.

The Inn keeper, a heft round man with typical Nordic features made his way out from the back, and hollered from the counter, “Hello lass, what can I do for you?” There was a puzzled expression on his face as he sized her up. Usually rooms sold before nightfall, not after. He looked even more unsure when he spotted a strange weapon on her hip, a kindjal.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said with a polite bow of her head, which peeled back the hood of her fur cloak and showed blonde hair braided in a bun. She was strikingly Nordic, high cheekbones, the aforementioned ice-blue eyes, straight nose which turned slightly upwards, and lips that looked as though they were crafted by a master sculptor. Her age was difficult to place, maybe this face hasn’t seen thirty yet, but the eyes revealed themselves to be wiser, so perhaps the beauty of her features was fleeting, though desperately still clinging on.

“I was told he got a room here. Hopefully he is still around!” he gave a brief chuckle, a laugh of a little finch. “Name is Karl?” her eyes peered into the innkeepers for an answer before he could say it verbally one way or another.

“N-no. I mean, we have a policy. Don’t give out who is staying unless the person informed us of a visitor ahead of time. You understand why… I am sure you’re harmless but unfortunately-” he was cut off by a raised hand.

“Please, I came from afar to see him. I’m family, you see. I know rules are rules but - I can make it worth your while?” she leaned in and allowed the man a peek at what was below the fur cloak. He grinned stupidly, and just then a woman called from behind him, “Yon’sif? What is happening out there so early?”
The foreign visitor smiled, “Wife huh? You can buy her something nice,” and with that pressed a coin purse into the innkeepers hand before he could refuse. She could tell he felt uncomfortable, tempted by her and somewhat exposed by his wife, and now this coin…

“He is 28, upper floor,” the innkeeper mumbled after he’s had enough, and waved the woman off, turning to retire to his wife.

Shortly after the door’s lock was picked, and the foreign native quietly entered, those blue eyes darting all around. There was a candle still lit on the table, along with a… rabbit, dead now, it’s side eaten out raw. She smiled, the biggest smile yet, she was already victorious.

Red eyes stared at her from the bedroom, he detected her. Charging more like a beast than man, Karl launched at the woman who moved swiftly, fingers curled around the handle of the long kindjal. Rabbit blood stained Karl’s chin, his breath reeked of a fresh kill, and his energy reflected it. Furniture crashed as he chased his prey in the tight confines of the inn room. She knew how to move and where, having thought of her strategy the whole way here.

Her kindjal was like a large fang, the steel bright even in dim light, and the guard was shaped like a heart. She called it “Sweetheart” and it was rumored to have ended over 200 vampires, and Gods know how many other vile things. Finally Karl made the mistake she was looking for, she was pinned to the window, and he charging straight ahead, hands ready to seize his victim, mouth agape and showing his true nature. She leaned hard on the window sill and kicked him up and over, crashing him through the glass, into the fresh snow outside. She followed soon after, though taking time to make sure she landed right, unlike Karl who seemed shocked, still putting together what just happened. Sweetheart tasted his blood, her blade plunging itself into Karl’s gut and remaining there.

The woman walked toward Gwen, her mare, and untied her, taking out a thick chain from one of the saddle bags. She seemed in no rush, happy to be outside in the morning light. The vampire was crawling off, trying to escape, and would have had he not been pierced by a blade crafted to kill such beasts, leaving a long red trail on white snow. He was tired out, the light was making him even weaker, death seemed at hand and perhaps already easier than struggling to fight back. But she was not going to let him die yet.

She threw the chain around Karl’s neck and linked it into a tight loop, and walked to her mare holding the other end with Sweetheart back in it’s sheath. The mare then galloped to the town square, and the woman tossed the chain over a thick protruding tree branch, and hoisted the body up, hanging it in the morning sun. Sweetheart’s blade carved in a message underneath the hanging undead. The vampire’s blood pooled on the snow beneath as he wriggled helplessly, still alive. The dying creature’s blood filled the carved message in the snow which read, “Let’s kill them all.”

This strange invitation traveled by word of mouth throughout Skyrim and perhaps beyond.