Before you start, I just need to clear something up. I like to think that the educated citizens of the Empire know at least two languages. Those being the native language of their home country, and Imperial Common, a language spoken throughout the Empire and reserved for formal meeting and the like.

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Contrary to popular belief, the roads of Skyrim were pretty safe for wagons and the like. That being said, the nine travelers had all ready formulated a plan of action in the event of emergencies. If the carriage was attacked or searched, Twilight and Luna would cast an invisibilty spell over the ponies, and allow Reman to kill or converse with whoever had an interest on the vehicle. Planning ahead was good, given the Imperial roadblock up ahead.

This might not end so well, and they had come too far to turn around, the border to the Pale was just over the next hill. Dealing with some Legionnaires would be a good excuse to stretch one's legs, after spending the last sixteen hours in a carriage. Reman would try to avoid killing anyone on his side of things, but they might not give him any choice in the matter. The lycan tapped two fingers on his seat, the signal for Luna and Twilight to cloak the other mares. None to soon, either, as the carriage pulled to a stop about four yards from the blockade.

“Who is in the cab, sir?” The muffled voice of a Legionnaire, probably a fellow native of Cyrodiil, addressed the driver. Luckily, he had been payed to lie his ass off if questioned.

“Just an Imperial boy, headin' up to Dawnstar for somethin'.” Reman didn't know the driver's name, but he deserved credit for sticking to his word. Footsteps approached the carriage, it seemed they were going to search and question the lycan, regardless of the testimony. A knock on the door commanded Reman to exit and make himself known.

“Afternoon, brother.” The Imperial wasn't actually related to the man, but it was a courtesy to address one's kinsmen as such. The Legionnaire seemed at ease, glad that someone seemed compliant with the interrogation. “Something wrong?”

“Just a formality, keeping Ulfric's boys on the run.” The blonde man spoke Cyrodilic fluently, and with an astute Anvil accent. Judging by the Legionnaire's uniform, he was in charge of this squad, and spoke his native tongue to keeo his subordinates from knowing what he said. “Another day in our glorious Legion, eh?”

“Aye, have to keep the Stormcloaks on their toes.” The two men laughed together, happy to find someone else from their homeland in this backwater area. “Running the roadblocks to find couriers?”

“Any idea what those two are sayin'?” The driver was asking one of the Legionnaires, a Bosmer with a bow. In response, the diminutive elf shrugged, he didn't speak Cyrodilic, and he certainly wasn't one for conversation.

“Sir, we still need to test them.” Why on Nirn did they have a cleric with them? The aged Nord was a priest of Stendarr, but not a Vigilant. Either way, the man was both a religious leader and warrior, the sort that was regularly found in the Legion's ranks.

“Test?” Reman and the driver asked the simple question in unison, both confused at the possible meanings. It could be testing for citizenship, most of the Empire's history was common knowledge, and only monks knew the obscure bits.

“Nothing painful, I assure you.” The blonde Imperial seemed confident in this, that probably counted for something. “As I'm sure you know, there's been an increase in vampire sightings and attacks, General Tullius has bolstered every war camp with vampire hunters, gave us a way to test for any sort of taint in someone's system.”

“I heard they got a wereboar in the Reach, tried sneakin' over to High Rock.” A Nord with a very large beard and the stench of alcohol on his breath practically shouted at Reman, even though only a few feet separated them.

“Just put a white cloth over your arm, we pour a special mixture over it, and it gives the results.” The monk pulled two squares of alabaster silk from a pouch on his hip, seeing the shimmering fabric, the reasoning behind the method was made clear. White silk had special, some would say magical, properties when exposed to any sort Daedric influence. With Molag Bal being the father of vampires, it only made sense to use silk to find them. “With respect, I must ask for both of you to submit to testing.”

“I'll go first, we'll get on sooner.” The driver hopped from his perch, and slowly made his way over to the priest, Reman almost sighed in relief. The lycan was going to suggest the same thing, if only to protect the ponies that were hiding inside the carriage.

“Of course, sir, just hold out your arm.” The aged monk placed the silk square over the outstretched limb, nothing out of the ordinary just yet. Next, a bottle was produced from some pouch on the old Nord's belt, and was swiftly uncorked. The mixture burned Reman's nose, even at that distance, the stuff definitely wasn't friendly for werewolves. The tonic was poured over the silk-covered arm, the soft cloth clung as wet fabric should.

Nothing happened, not a single thing that shouldn't be expected, just... moistened silk.

“That's certainly a relief to see.” With a wave of a hand, the clergyman dismissed the driver. The younger Nord quickly returned to the carriage, readying the horses for the next leg of the journey. Turning to the Imperial, the monk smiled. “Strong stuff, isn't it?”

“Yeah, what's in it?” Reman made a show of fanned his hand over his nose, a joking attempt to remove the odor from the air. If that stuff cold tell the soldiers about his lycanthropy, he might as well have fun with it.

“The standard stuff, you know, thing like hemlock, wolfsbane, nightshade.” The old man replaced the empty vessel, pulled out a fresh bottle in turn. “Pretty much just poison, but harmless if it touches your skin.” The cultist of Stendarr stared at the vial in his hand, swishing its contents merely to see them swirl in the semitransparent container. Without warning, he stopped, and gazed at the young lycan. “You don't have any cuts on your arms, do you?”

“A few, but we can use the inside, instead.” Reman's armor corroborated the story, its dented and pockmarked surface told a tale of recent battle. “Anything to get to Dawnstar faster, right?”

“If you'll just hold out your arm.” The young Imperial was about to comply, before the priest stopped him. “You should take off the armor, first.”

“Right, be back in a moment.” With a small bow, the lycan walked back to the carriage, and began to shed his steel shell. First the gauntlets, then the single pauldron, and finally the cuirass itself. Each piece was safely deposited inside the carriage, taking care to avoid the cloaked ponies that were kept waiting within.

“Somethin' messed you up, boy.” A soldier pointed out Reman's many scars, like a road map to Cyrodiil etched across a pale canvas. “Mess with a sabercat?”

“Nah, just had a run-in with a Nord woman in the Bannered Mare.” Laughter spread though the men, though the women of the blockade glared daggers at the young Imperial.

“Isn't that what I said?” Everyone laughed harder at that one, even the priest was happy with the break from stress, even if it was temporary. One takes every opportunity to relax that comes along, especially during a duty as dull as this.

“Jokes aside, we've kept you long enough.” The priest motioned Reman to come closer, the time for his test had arrived. The two men were completely at ease at the moment, even the Legionnaires were calmly going about their duties. “Same procedure, just hold out your arm and I'll do the rest.”

The young Imperial extended his sword arm, it had the fewest injuries, underside facing skyward. As the silk square was placed over the limb, Reman's heart raced, when the bottle was uncorked, his nose burned and his throat ran dry. But when the tonic was poured over the cloth, the most spectacular thing happened. Nothing, it looked just like the Driver's square, like wet silk.

At first.

Three seconds after the fluid hit the fabric, the initial drop areas blackened, revealing the remaining influence of Hircine. Talos' intervention had only altered the curse, but the majority was still the Huntsman's own creation. The dark stain extended and deepened, turning the once virginal silk a sinful black.

“But, you-” The priest was silenced by a swift kick in the chest, sending the old man onto his back. Reman still had the same smile on his face, even as he spoke.

“Looked so normal? Yeah, werewolves and vampires are good at blending into society, barring the occasional mishap.” The smile turned predatory as the soldiers drew their weapon's and strung their bows. Much to the surprise of the Legionnaires, the lycan didn't unsheathe his sword, neither hand made a move for it. The blonde officer from before stepped forward, his hand up, with his own blade clutched in the other, as though he meant peace.

“We are under orders to take anyone alive for interrogation, we promise that you won't be tortured.” Despite what some claimed, Reman knew for a fact that the Legion used all sorts of physical and mental anguish to extract information from its captives. But that only applied to highly valued targets, someone like him didn't rate a second thought. At most, all he would be subjected to was questioning, followed by a military trial in Solitude, and then he'd be sent to a prison in Cyrodiil. “Just come quietly, no one has to be hurt.”

“I won't hurt anyone, but I'm not coming without making a lot of noise.” The Imperial hunched his back as the transformation set in. It was faster than before, painless, no bloodlust. Where bone once cracked and grew, they now exploded in size, muscle expanding within seconds. A muzzle quickly extended from his skull. Dropping on all fours, the fully shifted werewolf howled into the evening air.

The horses bolted, taking everything that was attached to them for a wild ride. The ponies safe and secure, too far gone for the Legionnaires to catch them, Reman's job was done. Putting his clawed hand above his head, the Imperial began to shift back to his normal self. The soldiers were astonished that he kept true to his word, but the number of readied arrows revealed the their true expectation. The small barrage wouldn't have killed him, but it was the thought that mattered. Faster than he could blink, Reman was shackled in chains, and loaded onto a wagon set for Solitude.

Might as well enjoy the ride, he was going to visit Solitude eventually, anyway.

Besides, all good adventures start in a prison cell.

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It had taken Applejack and Rainbow Dash to keep Glade from rushing out to help Reman when he transformed. It wouldn't have helped their situation one bit, even if she could have gotten to him. Reman's howl had startled the horses, and sent them all on a very bumpy ride.

“He did it so we could get away.” The realization was voiced by Pinkie, who was still a little shaken from the entire ordeal. The party pony's mane was slightly deflated, she obviously wasn't in the happiest of moods. “Reman put himself in danger to save us.”

“He probably knew something was going to happen before we left Whiterun.” Glade sulked into the seat, head resting on the Imperial's breastplate. “Might be the reason he marked his home in the map.”

“I'm sure he'll be fine.” Luna didn't sound as certain as she wanted to, but she held a certain knowledge for his abilities. “He's gotten himself out of worse situations.”

“I bet he all ready has a plan to meet up with us.” Fluttershy may not have been the most outspoken mare in Equestria, but she tried to help her friends whenever she could. Right now, she was doing her best to help Summer Glade stay under control. The lycan pegasus might act tough, but everypony knew she had a soft spot for the Imperial.

“We might as well keep going, then.”

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Waking up in strange place would worry most women. Lynette Jemane wasn't most women. She had grown accustomed to traveling, her former employers had her running around Skyrim and High Rock all the time. The bedraggled Breton had woken up in a number of strange places, but she'd never woken up wearing more than when she went to bed. That was before she remembered the previous night, though it was technically very early in the morning.

Reman had come, tried to ask for something, and left after the Breton had closed her eyes. At least he left a note on Lynette's gear before leaving, though it wasn't much of a note. The woman recalled how cryptic any message that wasn't written as a letter could be when her ex wrote them. It was just a map of Haafingar and Hjaalmarch, with a number of dots scattered across it. Their meaning was written below, and in classic Reman fashion.

I hide things here, they're buried, take as much gold as you want. Come to Solitude, I may be in jail when you arrive, so bring five thousand septims with you to pay any fines I may have. I'm not in big trouble, probably, but it's better to be safe.

I think it's time for something that I've put off for far too long.

He didn't sign it, didn't say what he was doing. The Imperial hadn't needed to, he'd given Lynette all the information she needed to draw her own answers. The Breton woman giggled at first, then the possibilities of just how wrong this could go entered her mind.

The only reason she really worried was the little thing Reman had drawn on the letter's bottom margin.