Road to Whiterun

Michael holds an impassive stare. His face looks to the darkened sky. His hand holds out to catch the falling white snows in the middle of December. The winter is harsher than previous years. A long stare at the snows melting in his palm, prompting the man to close his hands, as he starts to take a gander at the house in which he and his daughter used to live, where they had their shares of both countless happy and sad memories together.

Yet, it is all but distant memory. His eyes mirroring the scorching blazes which are devouring the building and licking the window of his daughter's room, as the house's structure slowly collapsing, threatening to go down any moment soon.

At the same instant, the clamour of hurried shouts of firefighters trying to put down the seemingly inextinguishable flames—as though they all emanating from Hell itself—directing civilians to safety grows ever louder in the distant. Petrified screams, police sirens, smell of burned flesh.

Michael exhales a sigh. He closes his eyes, blocking the noises. Before long, he reopens his eyes, casts his gaze at the now-empty surroundings, with nothing but the darkness remains. As a slight grimace finds its way too his face, his nose picks up an old, familiar presence, placing himself on edge, with his whole-body tensing.

A twisted one, down to its very core. With its sole purpose whispering, tormenting his mind with the remnants of a past which he buried deep within his heart.

"What you are trying to do will not change what you committed to your daughter."

He exhales another sigh, grunting. "Get out of my head," he growls with his hardened gaze. "You are NOT real. And you shall never be."

The voice giggles sweetly, as he feels a hand gently caressing his cheek, from behind. "Oh, what you said is true. But it will not change the fact you have to live with me for the rest of your pitiful life. What I already spoke is nothing but the hard-to-accept truth.

"So, do answer me—" a familiar red-haired beauty floats to his front, with her pair of purple eyes staring at him intently, tilting her head, smiling sinisterly "—are you sure you have enough power to keep your precious little rose away from harm again, as you utterly failed once?"

Michael grunts, keeping his cold gaze on the imposter.

"...That is something for me to find out, and for you to shut the fuck up."

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

The dream soon vanishes, with Michael straightaway opens his eyes, waking up from his slumber with a blank gaze gradually forming across his face, unamused by what he experienced and who he had the pleasure to meet during his entire rest after the wild yesterday.

"Who'd have known developing sentient nanomachines was such a splendid notion...?" Michael mutters, sarcasm filling his voice. "Keeping our brave soldiers sane during the course of the entire war, my bloody ass."

Mad scientists and their so-called genius ideas; the bane of his very existence.

Exhaling a contented sigh as he dismisses the annoyance—the last thing he needs as the first thing to experience in the morning—and rolls his shoulders, he turns his gaze to his lap, chuckling with a small smile when he notices a delighted Luna staring at him. She wiggles her ears and wags her tail as Michael rubs her head and scratch the base of her ears.

Nothing beats the scene of a blissful pup greeting him in the morning. Just as a brief picture of a German Shepherd beaming brightly at the camera flashes through his mind.

His smile grows sad. To which he breathes out, giving her squishy cheek a gentle squeeze before getting up from his spot. He stretches his whole body, uttering satisfied grunts from his throat, as he takes in his breath sharply. Sniffing the air, his nose wrinkles slightly, prompts him to turn his gaze to Luna, who blinks and tilts her head cutely.

"...I'm going to need to find something to deal with that stinky breath of yours." If looks can kill, then Luna is looking to strangle his neck. Which he ignores. "Now don't give me that look, young lady. I don't care if you're king of the forest whatsoever. Staying with me means you have to keep yourself nice and clean. Frankly, you reek like a common rabid dog, you know."

Michael could swear he sees the twitch on her ears. But he prompts to ignore, again.

"Seriously, Luna," he continues, despite the mild discontent in her eyes, "I have to buy soap once we arrive at Whiterun. Then I'm giving your deserved bath. A very thorough bath, mind you."

Luna prompts to shake her head frantically.

"Yes. I'm giving you a bath once we're in Whiterun. That's the final."

Luna whimpers, proceeds to give him the puppy eyes.

"...You want ticks all over your body, lass?" Michael asks with a raised questioning brow.

Which seems to get a reaction out of the canid. She flinches for a second. Before long she shoots him the stink eyes with a disinclined blob of her head.

"See, you can see reasons too~." Michael gives Luna a teasing smile, earns himself a deadpanned stare. "That said, I know I said it once before, but you really do remind me of a friend. She was... also afraid of water, like you. Though, it was worse than yours. To the point she used to actively avoid drinking water because some idiots used her to demonstrate water torturing. Took her bit of a while to overcome that trauma. Everything worked out in the end, quite fortunately."

Michael grins, rubbing Luna's head affectionately.

"Right. Enough reminiscing my boring past," Michael says. "Why don't you be a good sport and find us something for breakfast? We'll need all the energy for our journey. Meanwhile, I shall do some much-needed business in that bush before preparing us the fire."

In return, Luna gives him a flat stare.

"What is with the look? Can you skin and cook with those paws of yours? Only those who work get to have food to fill their bellies. You hunt, and I'll take care of the rest. A win-win, right?"

Luna wags her tail, barking, before launching into the woods like a furball, leaving Michael alone to do his, well, business. He is a person, not some video game character like a certain Dragonborn who can travel for days without food, water, sleep and the need to release their wastes, after all.

Actually, he is more than capable to do so, thanks to the machines inside him. Yet he still chooses not to. Over-relying on them is not worth the troubles they bring later on.

There is a reason why folks with sentient nanites were killed on sight all over the world.

...

According the map Michael purchased from Riverwood Trader—where its owner was lamenting about his missing Golden Claw—with their current pace it would take another two days to reach the commercial heart of Skyrim, also taking into account the time he and Luna need to rest and refill their needed-energy for the journey.

"You know, Luna, you really are strange wolfdog; though I already said it last night," he remarks with the canid in mention following him at his elbow. "Now that I think about it, aren't wolfs, or wolfdogs, or any animal, afraid of fire?"

Luna huffs, as though looking offended for comparing her to some random animals.

"Right. And... how'd you explain your lack of scent and sound yesterday?" he inquires curiously, humming. "Not trying to brag here, but my ears can be as sharp as a bat, and my nose can easily rival a Bloodhound, in addition to my sight. Yet I could not pinpoint anything that indicates your existence yesterday, until the very last moment. How did you manage it?"

With Luna sending him one hell of a smug smirk, Michael raises a confused brow. Until the scent and the footfalls just disappear before him. His eyes briefly widen, before he whispers, thoroughly impressed with what happened while everything returns normal once more.

"Bloody hell. That was creepy," Michael remarks, chuckling. "You really did disappear, Luna... In all honesty, I'm glad you are not on Earth now. Because once those cocksuckers learn of your existence, which is likely, they'll hunt you down before dissecting your body to study you."

Michael feels an oddly sense of relief with a shudder.

"By the by, can you mask your smell? My nose is pretty sensitive, like I mentioned."

In response, Luna gives him a soft-glare, while swatting his face with her long fluffy tail. And... is she seriously pouting? A wolfdog is pouting.

"Christ. How can you be such a fearsome wolfdog whilst acting like a girl at the same time?" he wonders out loud, earning himself another swat to his face. "All right, all right! Geez. I swear you are too strange for your own good, Luna. But that mightn't be a bad thing. Who knows?"

So far, walking along the rocky trail which leads to Whiterun, things seem to be not out-of-place, at the moment. The sky has already transformed into its blue since they started their journey after finishing their breakfast. The pleasant yellow of the sunlight brings everything to life, bathes both with delight. With the skillet pan dangling on his hip, Michael inhales the crisp fresh air, humming while enjoying the certain wild charm that Skyrim brings.

Though, as much as he is enjoying this sense of peacefulness, a small problem quickly arises. As one can see, for a man who has been in constant actions for the few decades, ranging from finding and destroying weapons from the last major war to fighting against Lovecraftian-like monstrosities, he is itching for some actions, or to use his favourite skillet pan to smash something.

In short, he is getting terrible bored from the lack of action, given there should be plenty of them in a place like Skyrim.

Not to mention, he cannot bring himself to fully enjoy the current peacefulness, as he is constantly looking out for potential dangers, unconsciously. While he is hard to be killed and confident that he can take on most people in Skyrim, excepting godlike beings and those who wield magic, he is not going to underestimate anyone. Doing so means dying; and dying is annoying.

Somewhere, a certain being named Death sneezes, blowing her stacks of working papers to every corner of her office, much to her horror, with God casually utters a "bless you."

"Then again," Michael mutters, crossing his arms nonchalantly, "this is Skyrim we're currently in right at the moment. Things are bound to happen, sooner or later—"

His ears twitch before he can finish his sentence. The clamour of vicious battle and edged blows gashing against flesh, along the ferocious battle cries, both toughened from fights and wild, slowly grows louder. A familiar, yet unwelcomed musky scents of the woods; and blood.

"Of course. Me and my big mouth," Michael mutters under his breath, before turning serious as he looks to his furry companion, who already caught the sounds and the smells.

With a wordless nod, the duo rushes ahead, armed, more than ready to join the battle.

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

Akatosh watches over her. The Khajiit caravan which she is escorting is facing a serious issue.

The narrow trail leading through the densely packed pine woods is bristling with corpses, soaking the earth red with their blood gushing out from the inflicted wounds, which comes from both the weapons and the claws. From the south, from the rear of the caravan, the blares of the battle cries and steel against thick flesh continue without an end in sight.

Their attackers had had them encircled without warning, completely annihilating the first line of defense as most experienced fighters fell down from their sharp teeth and razor claws. Their sizes and their speeds proving superior, easily butchering more men, even after she rallied the guards and anyone who could fight.

It was not until she flared a minute portion of her power and cut down many that the tide of the battle turned into a stalemate, with neither looking to gain advantage any moment soon.

Darkened red blood splattering across her face, as she opens her enemy's belly with a quick hack with her longsword. Yet, as one falls, many more seems to appear out of nowhere.

"Curse these lycanthropes!" she seethes, growing more frustrated, cutting another. The hordes of werewolves seemingly pouring into the caravan endlessly. "Where in Akatosh's name do all these lycanthropes come from?! I see no end to them!"

Channelling the inner magicka into her hand, she unleashes a torrent of purple lightning—frying her enemies' skin and flesh and boiling their blood. Many drop dead, but the attack did nothing to unnerve the werewolves, on the hand serve to make them eager more for her blood.

As she deactivates her spell, a wave of fatigue suddenly hits her. One werewolf notices the chance, seizes it and lunges at her with its mouth wide-open. Yet, with her hardened gaze, she thrusts her hand forward and catches its snout, crushing its head to brain bits with her iron-grip. One attempts to take a go at her back, only for its head chopped off by a Khajiit and his greatsword.

"Come, friend!" The Khajiit, armed to his teeth, throws her a big mana potion, which she catches and knocks down in one inhale. "If you fall here, the caravan is as good as wolves' food!"

"I know, Qa'athra." She takes in her breath sharply, ignores the aches throbbing across her body, grimacing. "We've been at it for half an hour already. How is our force doing?"

"Not good," Qa'athra admits gravely, killing another werewolf. "Our best warriors are cut down to only several, and the rest is being picked off one by one. This one hates to admit it, but those foul beasts are smarter than he expected!"

"Or their leader is a smart one," she adds, sending another flying with her bone-shattering punch to the face. "Curses! If we keep it like this, these things are gonna overrun us soon!"

"What do you suggest then, friend? This one can use anything you offer."

"...With the current number of our enemies, we have no other choice. Qa'athra, take everybody and run! I'll hold them off as long as I possibly can."

"A-Are you out of your mind?! This one will not leave you to your death!"

"Go, Qa'athra! It's your only chance. You have to take care of your people and your son—!"

Her blood suddenly runs cold. Then a high-pitched spine-chilling scream. She snaps her head to the source of the cry. Past the hordes of werewolves that are rushing at her and her Khajiit friend, she catches the glimpse of a werewolf setting upon one of the wagons, where a particular younger Khajiit is clutching his bleeding shoulder, wide eyes staring in horror at his impending doom.

"R-R'JHAN!!!"

As her Khajiit friend roars at the top of his lungs, helplessly at the sight of his son ever nearing to death's door, she grits her teeth, channeling the remaining magicka into her legs, even if it means burning her core for a while, all the while praying to Akatosh he would grant her enough strength and speed to make it, to save the child. Or perhaps some sort of a miracle.

Anything would do.

Then, she senses it. No, everyone, friends and foes alike, senses it. The sinister presence, one that reminds the tales her mother told her about that "woman."

The forest all of a sudden drops its temperature. For the first time in her life, she feels it. Fear; an overwhelming, paralyzing, choking fear. Her body trembles. She wants to curl into her mother's embrace. She... she needs... run—no! No!

She needs to protect these people! Whatever monstrosity is out there, she will gladly buy as much time as possible for them to run, for it is her duty as their escort. She might be a foolish girl—but damn it all, her pride and her conscience will never allow her turn away from this fight!

Her mothers raised her better than this! Even should she fall here, then so be it. For she is looking forward to meeting her old man in Sovngarde anyway.

In spite of that, her resolution turns into confusion, along a bit of shock, as she witnesses a massive grey wolf seemingly appearing out of nowhere, jumping towards the werewolf that tries to attack the young Khajiit and ripping its windpipe out of its throat. H-How could she fail to perceive such a grand beast?!

The shock, the wariness soon transforms into something akin to silent amazement. The grey wolf, rather than finishing R'jhan, turns its back to him, growling at the werewolves instead, as though it is... protecting him? Akatosh, just what is going on?

"Werewolves. Similar to wolves, they're beasts that live in packs."

The deep, dark voice immediately put everybody on edge, tensed. However, amongst the visible confusion and fear, she steels her nerves, ready to anticipate the greater danger. At once she also notices how the voice seems to affect the werewolves more. Their tails between their legs, with a few starting to put on a terrified recognized look, like they know that voice.

"M-Monster..."

"Vanquisher...!"

"Run... Must... run..."

Then, something is thrown into the middle of the paused-battle from the woods. There are several loud gasps from the lycanthropes, watching as a severed head, like something violently grabbed and ripped it off the body, roll a few times before stopping, belonged to a werewolf, several size bigger than that of a normal werewolf.

Her nose picks up from the new scent, originating from the woods. Prompting her to turn towards the direction with her weapon ready. But, contrary to her anticipation, she only sees a grey-haired man emerge from the pines, his left hand carrying... a skillet pan?

A bloody skillet pan, in fact. Somehow this odd, comical sight manages to fright her.

"So, as stated, it begs the question," the man says, the same voice earlier, with a smile, "how does one disrupt the pack's chemistry? Quite simple, really. Just find the head, and cut it off. Without a leader, a pack is good as a bunch of senseless wild animals that need to be put down."

A silence wash through the field, for a moment, before he coughs awkwardly into his hand.

"...Brilliant. I made a food out of myself. Making an entrance is really harder than I expected."

The grey wolf snorts, getting her attention, and rolls her eyes. However, her eyes widen, with her opening her mouth, ready to alert him of a werewolf lunging at him from behind. Yet, as opposed to her expectation of the man's gruesome fate, he simply backhands the creature, practically turns its body into a pulverized mess with all the bones crunching under his monstrous strength.

She cannot help but cringe at the sight. She almost felt sorry for the lycanthrope; almost.

"In any case—" a sinister air suddenly surrounds him, as he takes a deep breath "---KILL THEM ALL! LEAVE NONE ALIVE! NO MERCY!! AVENGE YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS!!! A GOOD WEREWOLF IS ONE THAT NO LONGER BREATHES!!!"

His voice booms throughout the field. First, there is only silence. The next second, the surviving fighters of the caravans, with their newfound strength, filling the air by venting their anger through their war cries, rush at the werewolves, who are still dazed and frightened from his presence.

The fight now becomes a one-sided slaughter.

She cannot help but stare at him with utmost respect, jaw-slacked. Whoever he is, this man... no, this hero turned the tide of a seemingly losing fight into their favour. As if he is the manifestation of how she imagines her father would be, from her mothers' stories and fond smiles.

In no time, she joins the war cries, screaming at the top of her lungs, and lays waste on every foul beast she comes across.

In no time, no werewolf is spared, even those who attempted to run, but all hunted down by the great grey wolf.

As the battle seems over, with the werewolves' corpses piling across the path, everybody starts to raise their weapons into the air and shouts in relived, hugging for a hard-fought battle. However, the joy is short-lived as Qa'athra cries, garnering everyone's attention, as they watch him hug his son, who seems to be in a great deal of pain.

She sheathes her longsword and instantly rushes to the pair of father-son, growing uneasy with a pit forming within her stomach. "What's happening?"

With tears in his eyes, the Khajiit shakily turns to her, his voice barely whispers. "I-I-It got... him... friend. L-Look... at his shoulder..."

Gulping a lump down her throat, she takes a look at the young Khajiit's shoulder. Her mouth let out a breathless gasp, as her worry became a reality.

"No..." She looks at the blackened veins pulsing through the young boy's skin, quickly expanding throughout his body, covering his neck and chest. "Q-Qa'athra, I'm... so sorry. If only I were not so incompetent, we could've..."

"No. It is this one's fault. He was not strong enough to protect his son." Which the Khajiit instantly unsheathes his knife, tightening his jaw. She widens her eyes—but soon accepts what he is about to do; better to die peacefully than live a pain-filled life. "Forgive this one, child... He could not... protect you... He... could not keep his beloved's promise... He will make this quick."

With his grip tightens around the handle, she could only avert her eyes, feeling ashamed. Letting loose a pained cry, the devastated Khajiit brings the blade down his son's throat—

—only to be stopped by the same man who practically saved them.

"Wh-What...?" the Khajiit asks, confused, before turning furious as he turns to the man. He hisses, showing his teeth. "Damn Nord. Why are you stopping me?!"

"And why're you trying to kill your son, my friend?" he counters softly.

"Y-You ignorant fool! How could you ask this one such a question—"

"Calm down, Qa'athra." She puts a hand on his shoulder, shaking her head. Which prompts the Khajiit to settle down as he puts down his blade. She turns to the man with her full attention, and takes a deep breath. "I know this may sound cruel, sir. But... this is what we could only offer for someone who is turned, or infected."

The man slightly squints his eyes. "Turned? Infected? Is it related to those damned things...?"

"Yes, unfortunately," she replies, her heart tightening at the sight of the suffering boy. "To become a lycanthrope, one must receive the blood of another. The one that attacked him already has its blood inside his system. The problem lies in how one is transformed. Without a proper ritual the process is agonizing, often leading to an unavoidable slow death."

"...I see," the man remarks simply, after a brief moment of silence. "Is there any way we can stop the transformation? Or simply prevent him from fully transforming into one?"

"I think there's one. But I'm not really sure." Qa'athra blinks, with a glimpse of hope in his eyes. She sighs. "Since it's got to do with blood, I suspect if we can somehow remove the lycanthrope's blood from his body, then the transformation will stop. However, you have to be quick. As soon as the transformation is complete, there's no turning back, since the Daedric Prince Hircine would claim his soul by then. Of course, no one really knows for sure... since this is something no one has ever attempted before."

"Right. If it's about removing that blood, I can do it—"

The Khajiit suddenly grabs his shoulders tightly. "A-Are you sure?! Are you sure you could save this one's son, friend?! Are you absolutely sure?!"

"I hope you can back up your bold claim, sir. This is a matter of life and death," she adds softly, with tiny hint of doubtfulness in her tone, understandably so.

"If you're willing to trust me, then I shall do everything to help the lad." The man smiles, putting his hand on Qa'athra's shoulder. "I swear on my life, as a father."

Which the Khajiit breaks down, mouthing "thank you."

Nodding towards her, the man let her pull the Khajiit into an embrace, create some space for the man to work with.

"Luna!" he calls out, as the wolf approaches him. "Which one tried to pounce the lad?"

The wolf simply gestures her head to the one he is stepping on.

The man ruffles the wolf's head, grinning. Inhaling a deep breath, he attaches his frying pan back to his hip before he proceeds to pull out his dagger, checking the edges.

She feels a certain uneasiness. "...Are you going to—"

"No, I'm not stab the lad, if that's what you're asking," Michael assures with a carefree grin. "Just try not to... freak out, all right?"

"What do you mean—oh, Akatosh!"

The crowd—which already surrounded the scene earlier—along her let out surprised and startled gasps, watching the man just stab his dagger through his palm, for whatever reason. As the crowd remains confused, he ignores them, crouches down to the corpse, and places his self-injured palm on its throat, where the wolf ripped out its windpipe.

"...What foul blood," he remarks, snorting. "Truly disgusting, and amazing at the same time. No time like the present, I suppose."

The man straightens his posture, reaching his clean hand into his satchel and pulling out a piece of cloth, getting himself onto the wagon. As he lowers himself to his knees, he shoots the nervous boy an assured grin, all the while putting the cloth into his mouth.

"Bite into it. Everything is going to be all right, I promise," he says soothingly. "All I need you to do is endure some pain, then it will be over. Can you do it for me, lad?"

The boy replies with a slow nod. Which Henrik pats his head.

"Good lad. You're going to be fine. I promise."

Exhaling deeply, he turns his attention to the deep gashes on his shoulders, which did take away a good chunk of his flesh. Slowly, he puts his injured-palm on the boy's wound, eliciting a muffled wince from him.

"Okay, easy does it. It'll hurt a lot," he says. "Ready? On my count from 1... 2... 3!"

As he slightly pushes his palm into the boy's shoulder, he releases a muffled scream at the top of his lungs. His body thrashing, shaking uncontrollably.

"Quick! Someone holds his arms and legs. Now!"

Upon his order, several instantly rush in to hold the boy down. While she holds down his legs, a Khajiit holds one of his arms while his father holds the other, visibly worried. As the boy continues to struggle, the man grits his teeth, his veins pulsing on his neck. In amazement, she witnesses the blackened veins slowly disappear from the boy.

Which is quickly replaced by another worry as she notices the same veins start to appear all over his arm, the same arm with the hand on the boy's shoulder.

With an audible grunt, the man yanks his palm away from the boy's shoulder, leaves a long trail of darkened red blood smearing on the wagon.

The boy, panting painfully, slowly closes his eyes and faints from exhaustion. She puts her fingers on the boy's neck, breathing out a sigh of relief. However, the relief turns anxious when she sees the man stumble out of wagon, clutching his neck with one hand while on his knees on the grass, the other gripping the earth firmly. Dark blood dripping off the corners of his mouth.

Sensing something is going terribly wrong, she quickly hops off the wagon and kneels down next to him. Her eyes widen, noting the web of black veins gradually covering his upper body, going into his neck.

"N-No..." she whispers, shaking.

"Well, worth it..." he wheezes with a chuckle, only to cough blood, staining grass. "Ah, fuck me... I mightn't feel pain anymore, but having two types of blood fighting for dominance inside... isn't that very bright of an idea. Bloody hell! Fuck it...!"

The man suddenly hardens his arm's muscle, before dark metals start covering his arm, much to surprise. The surprise quickly turns into horror as he thrusts his hand through his chest. The man falls down with a thud, no longer breathing. His eyes empty.

He... did this man just kill himself?

"What...?"

...

"...Is this a joke, Mr. Stone? Not even two days in Skyrim, and you already end up here?"

He blinks, turning to Death as she sits behind mountains of paperwork and stares at him with an annoyed gaze. Which he shrugs nonchalantly.

"Well, it was something necessary to do."

"Yes, necessary," Death says blandly. "Now return to the mortal realm. I have works to do, thanks to a certain someone who refuses to die many, many times..."

"Heh. See you later, then."

He definitely does not miss that twitch on her brows.

...

Before her brain could process what happened, she flinches as she hears a gasp. Turning to him in disbelief, she watches as he slowly pulls his hand out of his chest, with the hole where his heart is supposed to be starts to close itself. Slacked-jaw, she finds herself unable to utter any word—all the more when the veins just sort of disappear themselves.

"Oh, that feels pleasant..." he mutters sarcastically, hissing, before throwing up a sizable lump of thickened blood to the grass. "Yup. Nasty, indeed. In any case, how is he?"

Still not out of her shock yet, she blinks. "Y-Yes...?"

"The boy," he repeats. "How is he? Did I stop the transformation?"

She blinks, before finding herself unable to contain the broad beam on her face as she suddenly gives him a tight embrace. "You did it... You actually did it. You saved him."

"Yeah, and you're squeezing me to death here."

Almost instantly, she jumps up and steps back a respectable distance. Lightly blushing, she takes a deep breath to compose herself, coughing into her hand fumblingly. "M-My apologizes. I let... my emotions get the better of me," she apologizes, to which she gives him a grateful smile. "But, thank you for everything, sir."

"Well, it was nothing." He chuckles. She walks to him and holds her hand out, which he accepts and let her pull him up.

The man makes his way through the crowd, ignoring the glances. Arriving at the wagon, he gives the peacefully sleeping boy, then nods to himself, with her following behind him.

"He looks all right now. Exhausted, and possibly sore all over his body, but he'll feel better after a good nap, and good food to fill his belly. I did technically drain all of his energy, so do expect hell of an appetite once the lad wakes up."

"That is a relief, friend."

Chuckling, the man turns to the grateful voice. The Khajiit places his hand on the man's shoulder once he nears him, giving him the most serious face that he could muster for a somebody with a literal cat head attached to their cat-like body, with all the fur and all.

"May this one kiss you, friend?"

A silence. Which the man returns with a serious face of his own.

"Sorry, but I'm only interested in women."

More silence. The Khajiit breathes out, looking disappointed.

"Oh, well. This one tried."

Even more silence. It is not long until the two chuckle, which quickly turns into guffaws with the rest slowly joining in the fun. Meanwhile, she mutters something about "men," yet she keeps the bright smile on her face.

"This one has yet to learn the name of the hero who saved his son," Qa'athra continues.

"Michael. Michael Stone," the man, now known as Michael, introduces himself. "My pleasure to be your acquaintances. You can call me Mike, if you want to."

Qa'athra gives Michael an acknowledged. "This one is known as Qa'athra," the Khajiit introduces himself, before turning to her. "And this is Ingrid, this one's friend and escort of this caravan. His son's name is R'jhan. He would be glad to know more about you once he is awake, friend."

"A pleasure to meet you too, brave sir." Ingrid bows gracefully. "I'd like to extend our thanks to you, officially. You came to aid us in our most difficult moments, even though you rightfully have no obligation to."

"Like I said, it was nothing," Michael assures with a light-hearted laugh. Though, his grin becomes slightly saddened as his eyes land on the Khajiit corpses among the werewolves.

"Worry not, friend," Qa'athra speaks up, albeit solemnly. "His brothers and sisters fought bravely to protect this caravan. This one and the rest shall bury them accordingly to our traditions."

Michael bobs his head. "Of course... They all deserve their proper burials. I merely wish I could arrive earlier," he says, sighing. "Either way, where're you heading to?"

"We are going to Whiterun, sir" Ingrid replies.

"You can drop the sir, lass. And do you mind if I tag along to Whiterun?"

"I think you're more than welcome to join us. In fact, we are glad to have you on board. Do you think the same, Qa'athra?"

The Khajiit nods in confirmation.

"In that case, thanks for having me—" which he points to the wolf, who is lying next to the resting boy "—and the pup. We're both grateful."

"It should be us instead, sir."

"Again, just drop the sir. You really need to learn how to loosen up a bit. Men do not really like women who are too formal, you know?"

"Th-That's irrelevant!" Ingrid retorts with a light blush.

Even though, she does acknowledge the fact that he was not entirely wrong. But it is not her fault that the men she was interested found her right in the moment she was still working. And, like it or not, she must stay professional. Her mother taught her that much.

And what is wrong with staying professional? Does she scare them that much whenever she works?

Ingrid snaps out of her thoughts when Michael crouches down and brushes his fingers along the fur of the werewolf that almost killed little R'jhan.

"What're you doing, sir Stone?" Ingrid asks, eyeing the man curiously.

"I've heard from folks in Riverwood, that werewolf pelts do fetch quite some money. And we have a butt-ton of them lying around here," Michael states, grinning widely, as he gets up and tilts his head over his shoulder. "Does anyone here know how to skin a werewolf~?"

As most, for some unknown reason, starts to shudder... Ingrid feels a disturbance in the air. How can a childish smile start to worry her so much? A sweat trails across her cheek. Before long, all the heroic aura which he posses seemingly disappears, replaced by a sense of dread.

She does not know why, but she has a bad feeling this man will be a pain in her behind. Ingrid, ignoring her guts, shakes his head. She cannot afford to think of him in such a bad light! Yet... as she observes several Khajiit holding their mouth whilst the man delightedly teaches them how to skin the werewolf—something they did not ask for—she cannot help but be wary of him.

After all, those who are strong and powerful tend to have a quirk or two.

Meanwhile, Luna just naps next to the young Khajiit protectively, seemingly taking the role of a big sister seriously, and ignores the terrified squeaks from the Khajiit when Michael asks them to repeat what he just did.

She has a certain feeling he is enjoying "tormenting" these poor people a little too much.

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