An Unexpected Reunion

As the wide-open mouth draws closer to Michael, his nanomachines—instinctively discerning the impending danger—materialize along the surface of his skin and cover his neck in a dark layer of nigh-impenetrable alloy, accentuating his well-defined veins and muscles. At the same instant, the nanites wrap, harden and armor his entire forearm.

He might have been caught off-guard. But catching him off-guard while leaving him enough time to react is another matter—

"What the—?!"

Instead of feeling the full force of the bite aiming at his neck, the creature misses him, taking him by surprise. Then, Dorthe cries a bloodcurdling scream, as though scarred for the rest of her life, with the sickening crunch of flesh and bones being forcefully shredded apart emitting behind his back. Michael looks back, witnessing in astonishment as a... massive wolf tears out the windpipe of a cocky werewolf that seemed too eager to prove itself in front of its pack.

The said lycanthrope grips its claws around the exposed throat, suffocating in its own blood as it starts gushing out of the corners of its mouth. Michael covers Dorthe's eyes, intently watching the beast drop to its knees. Its face plants to the ground like a potato, motionless; dead.

"Wh-What is happening, mister...? I'm scared."

"Control yourself," Michael whispers, assessing the sudden turn of event; more precisely studying the newcomer which decided to assist him for some apparent reason.

Amigo, or enemigo?

The wolf, spitting the windpipe out of its blood-soaked mouth, looses a cold rumble, causing few werewolves to step a back. The aforementioned canid too takes several steps backward, standing next to him. Its posture imposing. Its face grim, as though prepared to pit against any brave soul who has the courage to step one single step forward.

None seems to dare after the brutal display. And Michael really means it when the wolf besides him is MASSIVE. Like they are next to a tiger; an intimidating Siberian tiger at that.

Michael slightly tenses as the wolf turns to peer straight into his eyes. A moment passes. The light honey-yellow bores into his. Something seems oddly familiar about them. Just where has he seen these ever-so frank eyes before...?

His nose takes a quick sniff. Before long, the image of a delighted pup licking his nose with both ears wiggling adorably, easily won his heart, comes to his mind. Michael sends a recognized look to the wolf. The corners of her mouth curve up into a small, tender grin.

"Well, I'll be damned." Michael chuckles wholeheartedly. The sizable wolf perks, wagging its tail in a thrilled fashion, similar to a puppy. "God. How come did you grow up so fast? If it were not for your scent, there is no way I could've recognized you."

The wolf let out an elated bark, which startles Dorthe somewhat, and visibly smiles.

Inarguably the worthy magnificent creature who facilely captured his heart.

"That said," Michael continues, returning his gaze back to the pack, serious, "we have to cut our reunion short, unfortunately. As much as I want to indulge myself in fluffing that tail and pet you to our hearts' content, I do believe there're pests to be dealt with first."

Seemingly understanding his words, the wolf looks back to the werewolves with its growl.

"Now—" the suddenly deeper edge in his tone emanates a wave of terror; shivers rushing across every werewolf in his sight; their instincts crying at them "—since you made a huge mistake going after a vulnerable child, I wonder which one amongst you will make the best pelt."

Their leader, seeming unaffected, snarls. "Empty... threats... Preys... all... trapped... Smaller prey... liability... disadvantage..."

"That's where you are wrong." Michael shakes his head. "You see, me and little pup here aren't exactly trapped. On the contrary, it is YOU lot who're trapped with us."

The wolf narrows her eyes, growls even deeper, ferally, apparently making a point to support his statement—which works as several lycanthropes shrink back, their tails between their legs.

"Also," he resumes nonchalantly, "this isn't my first time fighting while holding a child in my arm either. You have no bloody clue how many times I was forced into this kind of situation."

Michael tightens the armored grip around the handle of the skillet pan. The great wolf raises her hair, meanwhile, making herself appear larger while displaying her pair of jaws, filled with sharp teeth. A menacing air surrounds her, dropping the temperature several degrees.

For a brief second, every werewolf presenting in the woods could swear they sensed a brief flash of something darker, more sinister, hiding underneath the shadows of their supposedly preys.

...Predators—no, those two are monsters amongst monsters.

Michael cracks his neck. "Right, then. Dorthe, dear, you might want to close your eyes. This will be getting really messy soon."

====================

"Alvor, you heard that...?"

"I know," Alvor responses his wife gravely, before sending her an annoyed glance as the husband-and-wife making their way through the densely-packed woods. "The rumors are true. And I told you to stay behind, damn it! What part of it was so hard to understand, woman?"

"Screw you, Alvor!" Sigrid shoots back, pointing her steel sword at her husband. "I'm not going to sit back, while my daughter is somewhere out there in this blasted forest! You know I can fight too! I suppose you haven't forgotten how many times I kicked your butt before you managed to land a hit on me?"

"Shor's bones, that was ages ago," Alvor mutters, gripping the warmer tighter in his hands. "Why did my younger foolish self have to chase after such a stubborn woman?"

"I heard that, bastard—"

A bloodcurdling scream, coming from none other than their daughter, drains the blood off their faces. Without a word, the duo only glances at each other—a wordless agreement between them—before they pick up their paces, making haste while silently praying whatever Divine out there is protecting their little precious Dorthe.

They could only hope they will not arrive too late. Damn their little girl, why can she not act like a girl for once in her life!?

...

Michael dodges another set of claws attempting to get a swipe at, smashing the pan right into the skull of his feral assaulter before using the side of the pan to implode the skull of another. Noting three lycanthropes rushing at him, he throws the pan into the air. As the werewolves instinctively have their gaze on the pan, he pounds three consecutive clouts on their chests. His hardened fist breaks through their ribcages, seeking their hearts.

He catches the pan as it falls back down, just as the werewolves bite the dust. He switches to the bottom of the pan and crushes the snout of another trying to chew his head from behind.

Concurrently, the fleet-footed canid, with her vicious biting force which can snap trees with little to no effort, lays waste on every prey in her sight. "Efficient" is her middle name. Always aiming at their weak spots, their necks; her enemies drop like flies. The great wolf leaves behind her trail of carnage, carcasses with their limbs missing, some split into half. As some attempt to leave this fight—no, this slaughter feast, they all end in failure. No mercy upon her enemies. Hunting down them to their very last number.

Michael feels an involuntary shudder at the sadistic glint in her eyes, as though the wolf is enjoying this a little bit too much. He is glad she views him as a friend instead of a foe.

Before one realizes it, Michael and the wolf make swift work of the lycanthropes, and reduce the entirety of what once a great pack into one. More came out from the woods to their pack's aid— yet all fell as quickly as they arrived.

Their leader, the one who started all this, barely clinging to its life, lies helplessly with the corpses of its kin surrounding it, breathes for shallow gasps of air and clutches its bleeding side; the white bones of its shattered ribcage is exposed to the world.

Michael looms over the werewolf in mentioned. The skillet pan in his hand occasionally tints the ground with drops of blood. Bits of bones and brains sticking on the edges. Yet the pan remains unscathed, undeterred by Michael's inhuman strength.

Michael smirks internally. This has got to be his most favourite pan of all time! The real question is, will Alvor be willing to sell the pan to him?

The wolf gives the man a blank stare at his slowly-growing childish grin.

The werewolf grunts, getting Michael's and his companion's attention. Its eyes glaring at the cause of its imminent demise, burning with unrestrained fury. Alas, it changes nothing.

"They... know... M-My... kins... are... coming... for... YOU—!"

Its final words are cut short, as Michael squashes its skull. Its head bursts into a mess of gore and brain bits, only the chin attached to its neck, dyeing the ground and the grass a dark red.

"Well, that's the last one," Michael announces dryly, wiping a smear of blood off his cheek while looking back, admiring their handiwork. "Not bad. Not bad at all. As a matter of fact, I do believe this moment marks a sensational beginning of something special, little pup?"

The canid bobs her head with an affectionate bark, wagging her tail and licking his hand.

"Um, mister? I-Is it over... yet? Can I open my eyes now...?"

Hearing Dorthe's muffled voice as she still has her face against his chest, Michael exhales, taking a final quick glance at the corpses scattering across the open field. A lengthened intestine—which holds the lower and upper halves of a carcass dangling on a pine limb together—snaps from the weight, dropping both the parts to the earth with an unsavory sopping thump.

A shredded fur-covered hand goes bouncing from the impact, lands in front of him.

"...Let's head to somewhere less messy first," he suggests, as the nanites dematerialize and retreat back into his body, releasing the slight tension within his muscles.

Without delay, the trio moves along the piles of bodies, heading into the woods. Soon, they arrive at a nearby section that remains untouched. Gently, Michael starts setting the girl down, with her hands hesitantly letting go of him.

Dorthe cautiously draws up her eyelids. She scans her surrounding gingerly. The images of both the monster chasing after her and the wolf viciously killing one linger fresh in her mind. However, her gaze meets the same grin which assured her earlier on Michael's face, the relieved tears start forming around the corners of her eyes.

It is over. The nightmare is finally over—

"Eep!" Dorthe cries a startled yelp, pointing at a certain wolf leisurely sitting next to him. "...Wh-When did you get here—wait, aren't you the wolf that b-bit the werewolf?!"

Sensing the growing anxious from Dorthe, the canid stands up and approaches the girl. The said girl gulps down a nervous lump in her throat, unnerved under the sheer imposing size. She finds herself unable to move from the never-leaving gaze directing at her; not to mention the blood on her snout, occasionally dripping.

The wolf wiggles her ears, licking Dorthe's face soothingly. Almost promptly, her newfound fear vanishes, replaced with ticklish giggles as the girl tries to get away from the canid's tongue.

"S-Stop! Stop tickling me!" she pleads, but to no avail, as the wolf continues her assault. "P-Please! I'm really gonna p-pee if you keep licking me...!"

Michael cannot help but laugh at the scene unfolding before him. "All right. I think the poor lass has had enough, pup. You can spare her now."

Promptly, the wolf stops. A fuming Dorthe with her face covered in saliva casts an annoyed stare; before long she smiles blissfully as the wolf allows her to pet her head.

Minutes pass, with Dorthe indulges herself in fluffing the wolf—which makes Michael somewhat... envious, to put it simply—Michael tilts his head over his shoulder, his ears pick the familiar voices of a certain smith and the anxious woman, smiling to himself.

"Dorthe! Dorthe, where are you?!"

"Dorthe! Can you hear us?!"

The mentioned girl immediately perks up. She twinkles with a wide beam, snapping her head to the sources of the voice, tearing up. "Papa! Mama! I'm here! I'm over here!" she shouts back.

The girl sprints towards her parents, opens her arms as she practically launches into her mother's embrace, with the latter's knees give in and drop to the ground, holding her daughter dearly, as though afraid she would leave her arms again. Soothing-brimming tears and cries soon filling the air. Soon, the father drops his weapon, kneels down and holds the mother and daughter, silently letting his thankful tears trail across his cheeks.

"A family reunited. All in a day's work," Michael remarks, turning his gaze to the wolf as she has her attention to the massacre site. "Are you leaving now, pup?"

The canid looks back to him with an affirmed nod.

"I see." He pets her head with a tender smile. "See you later, then. Take care of yourself."

Another nod, with her ears wiggling, she departs. Michael simply watches her go, her figure gets smaller and smaller, until she disappears into the woods. Arching a brow, he looks back, noticing the family approaching him, with the young girl in the woman's arms.

Whatever the girl told her parents, her words seemingly caused the man and the woman staring with apparent amazement, alongside a profound sense of gratefulness, lost for words.

"F-Friend, you..." Alvor quickly wraps Michael into a bear-hug. "Thank you so much. Both of us owe you with our lives."

"Dorthe told us everything," the mother joins, sniffing with an indebted smile. "If there's anything you want, please let us know. I-It's the least we could do, in exchange for our daughter's life."

Awkwardly, Michael chuckles. He closes his eyes, humming thoughtfully. Before long, he smiles, looking at the skillet pan in his hand, then Alvor, who already releases him.

"Well," Michael starts, "I have no idea if you were working on this for someone else—" he holds the blood-stained pan to their sights "—but I'm willing to pay a good fortune for this bad girl."

Somewhere in this distance, the wolf stares, deadpanned, at the man's childish grin, again.

====================

"Alright, my friends! Let's give our friend, Vanquisher of Werewolves, one good cheer!"

The entire inn erupts in rowdy roars of cheers, holding their large tankards of mead and ale into the air before gulping down the whole thing in one inhale. Michael let out a chuckle, simply sips the cold ale and savours the throat-pleasing taste with a small grin.

"Not half bad," Michael comments, wetting his lips, "but I can brew a better batch."

As soon as the party, not that they really were, returned from the woods with Dorthe, Alvor was surprised to find out some townsfolks arming, ready to follow the couple to assist them. With one explanation to another, retelling the tales from Dorthe's point of view, and some needed to empty their lunches from witnessing the gory sight of werewolves, locals in Riverwood instantly dubbed him as "Vanquisher of Werewolves."

A title which he reluctantly accepted, if it was not for Dorthe's puppy eyes. In her words, it sounds way better than his "Frying Pan Hero." He felt attacked, but decided to ignore it.

Before long, nearly all the locals cramped into the only inn in Riverwood and started an all-night party to honor him, their new local hero.

The said hero is currently sitting alone in an empty bench around the indoor fire pit and watching in amusement as men and women dance and sing; most seem already tipsy. If he is to be honest, Nords are really loud, in a good way of course.

Michael continues sipping his share of ale, laughing as a middle-aged man tripped himself, falling over a woman, before the two lock their eyes and engage in a heated make-out session, with the whistles and cheers encouraging them.

He notices Sigrid, whose name he learned earlier, covers Dorthe's eyes, who is sitting in her lap, shaking her head. Unamused, yet the woman remains smiling nonetheless.

Heh. Speaking of the girl, she was chewed out by her mother afterwards—which Michael had to come to her rescue, to lessen her punishment. Needless to say, his "intelligent" attempt ended in failure, with him also getting chewed by the furious mother; Alvor simply stood and laughed.

Frankly, a mother's scorn is downright terrifying, for good reasons.

A strong arm wraps around Michael's shoulder. He raises his left brow, watching the man laugh and knock down his 7th tankard of the night. His face slightly red, reeking in alcohol.

"I think that's enough alcohol for your liver to handle, Alvor," Michael suggests.

"Nonsense, nonsense!" Alvor laughs wholeheartedly, sits down next to him. "Tonight, we are all going to celebrate until we pass out. It's not every day we come across a man like you, my friend. Slaying foul beasts and saving our precious babe? This is your night!"

"Well, I did get some help from an unexpected friend."

"Still," Alvor continues with an uncertain smile, "you sure you're fine with... this arrangement?"

"It's my money. I decide how to use it." Michael chuckles light-heartedly. "In addition, I'm pretty certain your wife didn't appreciate the fact you intended to burn half of your life saving to invite the entirety of Riverwood."

Alvor shudders, possibly recalling Sigrid's dark aura the moment he made the suggestion.

It almost ended in bloodbath if it was not for Michael who offered to pay in his stead.

"That said—" Alvor takes a deep breath, cupping the tankards with both hands as he stares at the firepit; the flickering flames reflecting on his eyes "—we can't thank you enough for what you did. I... we were scared. That our Dorthe was taken from us forever. Truthfully, I cannot fathom how devastating my wife and I, and our life would be if she was—"

"Now, now. Let's not dwell into things that fortunately didn't happen. I'm sure the lass learned a hell of a lesson already." Michael spares a quick glance at the pair of mother and daughter, with the former hugs the latter firmly. "Plus, it was something I'd simply do as a father."

Michael takes another sip from his tankard, exhaling contentedly. Seeing the look of a conflicted father, he breathes out, placing his hand over Alvor's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Don't think too much about it. What matters at the moment is that she's safe and sound. Instead of overthinking about what could've happened, try to focus more on the moment. The present... not the past. Learn from this, and improve yourself."

Michael chuckles softly.

"Well, she did mention Riverwood is boring. You can do something about it. Who knows?"

Grunting lightly as he stretches his shoulders, Michael finishes his ale and sets the tankard down on the bench. He rises to his feet, snatching the satchel—which contains his essential supplies—as he takes in his breath sharply, filling his lungs with air.

"I'm heading to Whiterun as soon as the sun comes up tomorrow, so I'm hitting the hay," Michael announces, rolling his shoulder blades.

Alvor blinks. "A-At least let me pay you a room for tonight."

Michael dismisses the offer with a wave, smiles. "It's all right. I prefer to sleep outside." Then he casts a flat glance at the on-going part. "Also, I don't believe I'm going to get some seep any time soon with a party still on full-swing like this. Won't you agree?"

The bearded blacksmith snorts, grinning. "I can see that," he agrees, before looking at the skillet pan dangling on Michael's hip. "Though, are you sure you only need... that? I can give you some proper weapons. Swords, axes, warhammers."

In response, Michael smirks. "You all saw what happened to those goddamned werewolves," he replies simply. "And I did purchase a knife and a dagger, didn't I?"

"But—"

"In any case," Michael cuts Alvor off, "do take care of yourselves, and your family. It's been my pleasure to be acquainted with your family, Alvor. I'm definitely going to meet you again soon—after I manage to make a name for myself in Skyrim."

Alvor can only stare at Michael in disbelief. Before long, he shakes his head, rising to his feet and extending his hand.

"For someone your caliber, it'll be a surprise if people don't start talking about you, friend."

"You're flattering. But thank you, nonetheless." Michael shakes Alvor's hand.

Alvor places his other hand over the handshake. "In case you have nowhere to go, we'll welcome you, Michael. I pray for Shor, Talos, and the Divines watch over you, my friend."

As the two men releases their handshake, Michael makes his way through the party, heads to the mother and daughter. The latter perks up, but instantly looks disappointed when she notices the satchel. She looks to him with her puppy eyes, again.

"You're leaving already, mister...?" Dorthe asks.

"Well—" Michael ruffles her hair, grinning "—I do have places to be, lass. I'll return here and visit you three again, though. And don't look so down. Smiles suit a lass like you better."

"I-I'm not sad...!" she protests, but then look away. "Not sad... at all..."

Chuckling, Michael straightens his posture and turns to Sigrid, who smiles softly.

"Thank you for everything," Sigrid says gratefully, before glancing at Alvor briefly, annoyed, as the man shudders under her gaze, then back at Michael. "Alvor and I will pay you back... some time in the near future."

"Like I said, it's fine," Michael assures; he turns serious. "Do talk to Alvor. The man is conflicted, blaming himself over the whole ordeal. I talked to him, but he still needs a woman's touch."

Sigrid, in return, nods her head. "I will."

"Well then," Michael says, grinning, "take care of yourselves. And you, lass, I hope you learned something from this."

"I did," Dorthe replies, sticking her tongue out; before long, she smiles. "I'll miss you, mister. Just remember to visit us sometimes too, okay?"

"That I will. Have a pleasant night, Sigrid, Dorthe."

As Michael makes his way to the door, he does not miss the look which the innkeeper gave him; that suspicion in her eyes. He promptly ignores it and heads outside, delighted that he no longer has to smell anymore alcohol. He already smells enough of it for one day.

Still, what a hypocrite he was back there. Telling someone else not to focus on what could have... happened when he himself keeps thinking about it every day.

The day a big part inside him shattered, burned, reduced to mere ashes.

The day he lost his Rosalind because of something he could have done sooner.

"Truly—" Michael chuckles bitterly "—I really am a hypocrite, aren't I, John?"

Humming to himself, Michael slowly flattens his eyes whilst he walks down the main path going through Riverwood. He places his hand over his growling stomach, slightly irked.

While the ale was all right, somewhat, the food there absolutely tasted like donkey's cock.

"I need something in my stomach," Michael grumbles. "Seriously, it wasn't even about standards between medieval and modern era. It's like somebody slapped anything they could find together and just called it a day. Yuck."

He pauses, looking around, realizing he has walked into the woods without noticing. Figuring he might be able to find something here, he reaches for the skillet pan. However, he stops himself. A smile slowly creeps on his face. He turns back, facing the shadow that is slowly emerging from the woods, approaching him leisurely.

"Huh. Definitely didn't expect to see you again so soon, pup."

The great wolf wags her tail as soon as he recognizes her, all the whilst dragging a dead dear by its neck. Michael raises a questioning brow—to which she responses with a roll of her eyes, looks at his stomach, then at the deer in her mouth.

"...You want to share?" Michael asks, receiving a nod. "Well, I... thank you. Quite, uh, thoughtful of you. Right, then. I'm starting a fire in a moment, so do make yourself comfortable."

...

The breezy wind of the night blows into his face as he looks up at the dark sky. Among the many stars, two beautifully illuminating moons stand out from rest. The smaller one of the pair appears exactly like Earth's counterpart. The other, with its red burning-sand-like surface, reminds him of Mars. He almost forgot this world has two moons instead of one.

"Might take me a while to get used to this." He leans his back into the tree with his hands behind his back, staring aimlessly at the sky. "The entire day feels similar to a lucid dream. Not only did I meet Death, I somehow got... what do they say again? Ah, yes. I got yeeted, all the bloody way to Skyrim. And my little rose is here as well."

Michael heaves a long sigh, humming to himself with his eyes closed

"I wonder how she's doing right now? Is she even in Skyrim, though?"

Before him, the campfire twinkles, illuminating his face with its light and warmth. The pine limbs are red and glowing, occasionally giving off spurts of flames which illuming the greyed hair, and the sharp features on the man's resting face.

Michael opens one eye, noticing the wolf coming closer to him before sitting down, curling herself besides him with her head resting on his thigh. Her grey fur shines gorgeously before the light of the flames. Her honey-yellow eyes looking up at him, prompting him to smile.

"I keep forgetting you're a wolfdog, not a wolf." He chuckles light-heartedly. "Having said that, I don't think it's proper to call you pup all the time. Hmm. How about... a name?"

The wolfdog wags her tail lightly. He places his hand on top of her head, petting her, all the while he squints his gaze and starts thinking some names.

"Let's see. How about... Dawn?"

Her response? A blank stare.

"So that's a no," he muses. "Uh, right. Destiny?"

She gives him a "really?" face.

"I can try better. Let me think. What about... Fang?"

She shakes her head.

"Maia?"

Another head-shake.

"Saga?"

And another.

"Ugh. I'm bloody terrible at naming!" Michael mutters under his breath, sighing as he moves his gaze to the sky. His eyes land on the moons. "Moons... moons... moons...! Moon... Luna."

The wolfdog's ears perk up.

"How about calling you Luna?" Michael asks again. This time he removes a happy bark. "Alright. From now on, I'll call you Luna. Indeed, it is a beautiful name for a beautiful lass."

Michael smiles victoriously, proud at himself. Meanwhile, Luna merely rolls her eyes.

"What? Let me enjoy my moments too," he moans, pouting childishly.

Which Luna snorts, giving the man another deadpanned stare.

"Anyhow. I'm full, and I'm getting sleepy. You know what that means," Michael mumbles, loud enough for Luna to hear, yawning. "You know, you really are a strange one. You can understand me. You are too expressive for a canid. And you preferred cooked meat over raw."

Michael yawns again. "But that is alright. My life has always been surrounded by odd ones. One more to the list won't change much. Hell, there might be more in the future."

He looks to Luna tenderly. "Right. My point is, would you like to travel with me? I'd love to have you as a companion who can always watch my back, and a friend who I can rely on. Yeah, I do realize that sounded corny. But what say you, lass?"

In response, Luna simply scoots closer into him, lightly wagging her tail and wiggling her ears.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Michael smiles. "Sweet dreams, Luna. See you tomorrow."

====================