Corpus Tamrielicum - The Imperial Library

284 2. THE ELDER SCROLLS CHAPTER 2: DAGGERFALL
[46] On Lycanthropy
On Lycanthropy
by Varnard Karessen
How does one become interested in studying the disease lycanthropy? I have interviewed a
number of my peers, and discovered that to a man, they have all entered the field fter a
horrifying encounter with a lycanthrope of some variety. I am no exception.
In Skyrim, it is an old tradition to rub canis root on the trees surrounding your house as a ward
against werebears. When I was young and stupid (as opposed, I guess, to being old and stupid
as I am now), I always had hoped to meet a werebear to see if they were as impressive as
legend suggested. I would follow strange tracks in the woods until they disappeared, with no
fear or even thought about what I would do after I had found my quarry. By Thorig's beard, I
was lucky that my investigations were fruitless.
When I did finally see a lycanthrope, it was not a werebear. It was a werewolf, the "common"
lycanthope, which can be found in every part of Tamriel. My father was a priest and during
the coldest part of the winter, he allowed the beggars and riffraff of Falcrenth to stay in the
relative warmth of the cellar of his temple. We would even supply warm barley stew. My
sisters and brothers and I actually enjoyed this bit of philanthropy, for in the cellars during the
winter, it seemed there was a constant party. There were always travellers with interesting
stories and eccentricities, and the atmosphere in the cellars was always light and friendly.
Until that night.
By an established tradition, the beggars who were sick or wanted rest more than food and
companionship would go to the cots at the farthest, darkest end of the cellar when they could
be assured at least relative quiet. We were enjoying a song, and my sister Gethessa was
dancing to the amusement of all. The song ended, but a chorus continued from the darkness at
the far end of the cellar. As drunk and incomprehensible as most of the carolers were, it took a
minute for us to realize that the sound we were hearing was not singing, but screaming.
No one was too concerned, for some of the older tramps often suffered from vivid nightmares.
Nevertheless, one of father's priests went to silence the screamer and the moment he
disappeared into the murk, we heard another sound. The snarl of a wolf. Then we heard the
priest screaming as the original scream died off. "Werewolf!" cried the old bard who had been
leading the song. The cellar exploded into chaos.
I was pushed out the cellar door into the snow with the first wave of panic, but I could see that
some of the more brave (or more drunk) hobos were rushing into the darkness to do battle
with the lycanthrope. They were all, of course, almost instantly killed.
My father, upon hearing of his unwelcome visitor, sealed off the cellar after the last survivor
of the carnage had left. A seasoned battlemage from the Falcrenth Mages Guild, who owed
father a favor, went into the cellar and slew the beast.