None but a Reachman would consider conjuring such a repugnant creature as a Banekin. Standing little taller than a Bosmer’s kneecap, alone they are skittish and but an annoyance. If allowed to gather however, then several can quickly become taxing, whilst a small pack will soon overwhelm even the most accomplished warrior.
Their reptilian skin, mottled with boil and carbuncle, is stretched taut over sinew and bone. Two black horns crest their forehead above eyes which luster with bile and spite. Their thin lips smuggle a row of pointed teeth. Small spikes ridge their shoulders, whilst wings, too stunted to be of any service, agitate inexplicably on their backs. Four sharp claws appendage each hand, whilst their feet end in fixed pincer.
Even when found alone the cur constantly prate and jabber, fidget and joggle. Of doubtful intellect, yet still capable when so inclined of throwing out lightening and shock spells at startling pace.
Growing up in Cyrodiil, one of the countless scary stories told around camp-fires was of how the Witchmen of High Rock would descend from the Reach at night and steal away infants from their cots, leaving Banekin in their place.
When the dark anchors began to fall, we found we no longer needed such stories to frighten our children.