The Heartwood Why does thou sit upon my grave

Sry for the slow replies :’) I’m trying to play catch up.

Oh yes, the hellhound is indeed broken — damned to suffer for the rest of his short life. And even in death, he will be meant to suffer. Suffer along Banesteppe — his would-be god — for all of eternity. It doesn’t sound fun, but the more Alduin has to deal with the ghostly figure, the more plausible it seems; the less he hates the idea. 

Acceptance is key, right?

No, not to this witch he has found himself speaking with. Who appeared like magic in his dreams and further thrusted into tangible being (if her teeth have anything to say about it).

And so she says she was sent here. Sent here in his benefit no less. Interesting. He wants to hear more, only without her teeth gnawing at him. Only now he’s feeling more inclined to bite back.

He listens to her first words, eyeing her down intensely as she goes. But her last words stick with him.

Whatever dark spirit haunts you…force them away. They will only lead you to your death.

What if he doesn’t mind death though?

And still, when he asks her what she is doing here, she continues. Her words cryptic and mysterious— he likes the way her voice sounds despite the way her teeth bite. Venomous — small but deadly. Like a rattlesnake. 

And then suddenly,

Wake yourself!

Teeth snap at a rounded shoulder. He snaps his head in her direction once more, lips wrinkling slightly. 

I am as real as any eye could ponder. You are no stranger to me, as I am not to you. Think.

He knows her. Another snaps of teeth brings back a flash of memories. It stunts him — shocks him like lightning — leaving a twisted, vein like scar. 

A scar on his memory. 

Think.

Take my image and run it through your past. Only you can find the truth. Figure it out, for I cannot tell you.

She circles him like shark herding seal. 

He twists himself to look at her — stare into her eyes. A burst of silvery ice and red hot fire — clashing. And then it’s like a movie plays in his mind completely out of his own control.

Her face — much more youthful — shows before him. 

A memory.

Accompanying it are words — conversations. The way they tiptoes around once another. Her secretive confidence mixed with his own dark aura.

Khasni. 

The hellhound blinks his eyes and stares at her once more — visible surprise written on a usually stoic face. 

“Khasni.” He confirms, hoping that if he says it out loud he will not forget. And then once more, “Khasni.”

And then he moves to turn his body in her direction then. “What tricks have you learned in order to find me — to invade my dreams?” He wonders, familiarity coloring his eyes, as a hardly there smile moves onto his scarred muzzle. He snaps out at her with his own jaws this time, purposely missing, but toying with her nonetheless. 

“You are a proper witch now then?” He rumbles. “How did you make me remember?”