Shmork - A Skyrim short-story

by AbsolutelyMediocre

A brief snippet of the experience of Shmork, an orc warrior recently accepted into the Companions of Whiterun. Will be expanded upon later, just a first dip into writing the character.

SHMORK

A Skyrim short-story

AbsolutelyMediocre

I: The Blood Calls

Shmork shivered slightly as he stepped out into the cool breeze of the Skyrim night. The Orc was no stranger to the cold, having lived among the Nords for the last few months in their frozen tundra home. Even now, in the heart of the summer season, the air was always laced with a frosty bite, especially during the night, and the chill was exceptionally noticeable to Shmork in comparison to the warm hearth he had been reclining in front of only moments before. The large Orc rolled the considerable bulk of his shoulders, well-muscled from swinging both the hammer of a smith and the warrior's mace. It was a nervous habit of his, performed only right before battle or when grappling with mental irritation. This night it was the latter.

Not for the first time, he cursed Skjor quietly under his breath, locking the door to his home as he did so. The big, bald, ill-tempered Nord had been harassing Shmork since the very first day the Orc had joined the Companions, the well-renowned group of warriors headquartered in the city of Whiterun. The green-skinned newcomer had expected some resistance in joining a group of Nord warriors who prided themselves on their history and traditions, traditions as old as Nordic rule in Skyrim, but he had also heard tell that the Companions accepted all warriors who had honor in their hearts and fire in their blood. Shmork was never lacking in fire. Most of the warriors had been as he expected, somewhat wary around the Orc at first, but warming up to him as they beheld his prowess in battle, or discussed with him the finer points of hunting, smithing, and other varied interests. Shmork would even label a few of them as friends, a title he used rarely. Skjor, however, was not what Shmork would call a friend.

The Nord had been keeping a close eye on the latest recruit, "new-blood" as they were often referred to, and seemed intent on interfering with, or stating his opinion on, every job Shmork carried out. Initially the Orc had taken it as a challenge to be the best he could be, a rough kind of mentoring that he could tolerate, if not appreciate. However, Skjor never had any praise for the Orc, always dissatisfied with Shmork's approach or the results of his efforts. If Shmork was diplomatic and solved an issue with words and an intimidating presence, Skjor claimed he was too soft and reserved for a warrior of Orc–blood; if Shmork raged through a mission, blows glancing off his armor and blood splattering from his mace, Skjor asserted that the barbaric Orc should better control his blood-lust. Shmork prided himself on his patience and forethought, two qualities he thought his race could use more of, but his meetings with the condescending Nord brought his blood to a rolling boil more often than not. Even after Shmork had retrieved a shard of Wuuthrad, the Axe of Ysgramor, with Farkas and been made a Companion in full in a ceremony behind Jorrvaskr, Skjor looked at him with something akin to disdain.

And so it was with heavy steps and more than a few sighs that Shmork walked through the city of Whiterun this summer night, toward a meeting with Skjor. The Nord had grabbed Shmork just as he was leaving for home earlier that afternoon, and told the Orc that he was to meet with Skjor and Aela that night in the Underforge, a cleverly hidden cave behind the Companions' mead hall. When pressed for details Skjor had only said,

"Just be there new-blood, and keep this to yourself." Typical infuriating nonsense. As Shmork climbed one of the wide, worn stone staircases that connected the plateaus of the city, his mind wandered through all the possible meanings of this secretive meet, and whether or not he truly should have come alone. He trusted Aela; the Nord woman had a fierce and defiant disposition that reminded Shmork of the Orc women he grew up around, and he couldn't help but like her. Skjor he wasn't so sure about, and thus despite orders to leave his armor and weapons behind, Shmork's brass and copper colored mace swung weightily from his belt. His only other equipment consisted of a woolen shirt and leggings, with short leather boots; far less than he would normally wear. Shmork felt a great number of words could be used to describe his current situation, but a particular one kept coming to mind: exposed.

He paused for a moment as he reached a courtyard on the second tier of the Nord city. The courtyard was surrounded by a few houses, with their rough-cut wood beams, whitewashed wall, and tall, steep-sided roofs of wooden slats, true to the Nordic heritage of their builders and inhabitants. Here was also the Temple of Kynareth, a place of healing for the people of the city. On the north side of the courtyard large stone steps led further up the hillside, all the way up to Dragonsreach, the hall from which the Jarl of Whiterun ran his hold. The large wooden building could be seen clearly from this spot, towering over the houses and rocky hillsides. Beside the staircase stood a tall and imposing statue, depicting a strong-jawed Nord clad in ancient armor, standing with one foot on a long and scaly serpent, his sword aimed down to skewer the beast. Shmork appreciated the craftsmanship, but always shook his head at the artist's depiction of the dragon. Not only was the image itself inaccurate, but the battle-experienced Orc had come to appreciate the ferocity and power of Talos's legendary foes; he felt even the man-turned-divine himself would not welcome such a frail and unfair depiction of the ancient and mighty race, even placed under his own boot. Looking from the buildings to the depiction of the fire-breathing reptile made Shmork briefly wonder if the people of Whiterun ever regretted building their homes and businesses out of wood. He chuckled at the thought of a Nord having regret; more likely they built them out of wood to spite the beasts. But the statue of Talos, as impressive as it was, was not what brought Shmork to pause at this courtyard, however. No, the Orc came to this courtyard on clear nights like this one to sit and meditate underneath the large, white tree rooted at it's very center; The Gildergreen.

The tree was magnificent, with long, thick branches that extended their wide offshoots almost thirty feet across and into the air. The air around it seemed to hum with energy, and most nights, including this night, torchbugs, with their bright glowing abdomens, would float all around the tree, and rest on it's branches, bathing the white wood with an ethereal yellow glow. The light created a scene so peaceful and beautiful, that even the fierce and wild blood of an Orc, the very blood that coursed through Shmork's veins, was calmed and cooled in its presence. The tree and the benches that sat near it were also surrounded by a stream, only six inches deep and about two feet across, which originated at the top of the large hill the city was built upon, flowing down through the city in aqueducts and small waterfalls, and in the stone troughs set into the courtyard's stone mosaic, making it seem more like a natural clearing than a structure designed around the glorious tree. A small bridge at each of the cardinal points allowed foot traffic over the stream and through the courtyard. Here the Orc felt as though he could be truly calm and collected, the best of himself, and so he came to this spot to sort out his emotions when they became too tumultuous, to let the energy of the tree, the light of stars and the small, vibrant bugs, and the sound of the whispering stream wash away his grief and his anger.

Shmork took a moment to bask in the glow of the Gildergreen this night as well, letting some of his irritation and apprehension fall away, a superfluous burden born of his own mind and nothing more. Whatever awaited him at the Underforge, he would deal with it as he always dealt with his problems; with a level head, clear, objective reasoning, and if the situation arose, the appropriate number of swings with his powerful mace. He bowed his head to the great tree in thanks, and turned eastward, toward Jorrvaskr.

As he walked he contemplated a conversation he had shared with Danica Pure-Spring, the head priestess at the Temple of Kynareth, only a week or so before. Since that exchange his visits to the tree had been bittersweet, as Danica had informed Shmork that the tree's magic was actually on the wane, and that if nothing was done it would soon die. Not wanting to allow such a beautiful peace of nature to disappear from the city he called home, Shmork insisted that he do something to save it. Danica, smiling her gentle, knowing smile, told him that she would do some research and tell him if she found anyway he might be of help. Shmork had gone everyday to the temple since then, including the morning of the day just past, to see if her search had born fruit. The wise and ever-calm woman told him the same thing she had told him on each previous visit; to be patient, and pray to Kynareth for guidance. And Shmork had sighed and mumbled that he wasn't the praying type, as he had told her on each previous visit. He hoped her quest would soon reach a turning point, so that his quest could then begin with real purpose and direction. But of course, he reminded himself, that was assuming he survived whatever fate Skjor The Ever-Disappointed had in mind for him this evening.

At the top of another stone staircase, Shmork came upon the mead hall Jorrvaskr. The hall was old, older than any other building in Whiterun, if the stories were to be believed. It was said to have been constructed out of the lead ship of the fleet that Ysgramor and his original 500 Companions, the founders of human civilization in Skyrim, had come across the sea in. Indeed the roof of the building was a Nordic ship, capsized and propped up with wood supports, and still decorated on her sides with the shields of the warriors who sailed her. The walls of the hall had been built up between the supports, creating a large lodge with a fire pit in the center, a long table for feasting, and many racks and cases for weapons and armor to be displayed all along the walls. The living quarters for Companions had been tunneled underground, and acted as a sort of common area where only reputation kept a warrior's name on his bed, and mutual respect and honor kept everyone's belongings where they were left. The only members of the Companions with assigned rooms were the Inner Circle, consisting of the members who had been there longest and held the most trust and respect. The current Inner Circle consisted of: Skjor, Aela, Kodlak Whitemane, and his two sons, Vilkas and Farkas. The Inner Circle accepted contracts for jobs from outside sources, and delegated work to the other members of the Companions, with Khodlak acting as Harbinger, the unofficial leader of the group. Kodlak never gave orders or demanded tribute like a true chief or leader, but his experience and opinion were highly valued by not only the Companions, but by the Jarls throughout the Nine Holds. Particularly the Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater, often counseled with Kodlak on issues of state, particularly those regarding the recent outbreak of civil war in Skyrim. However, while Shmork was familiar with the history and practices of his Companions, none of these things crossed his mind when he came to the entrance to Jorrvaskr this night. His only thoughts were of joining the revelry he could hear from inside, instead of following the course he was on. He grudgingly turned left to go around the building, instead of through the doors into the warmth and merriment he knew lay inside.

As he came around the side of the wooden structure, Shmork saw the great Skyforge looming above him on the small cliff behind Jorrvaskr. The Skyforge was said to be a never ending source of perfect heat for forging the steel weapons of men, and Shmork didn't doubt the magic that was housed there. As a smith himself, he had worked in the potent flames that were always burning, lighting the giant eagle statue that spread its wings over the forge, and had felt the ease with which metal took shape under one's hammer blows. But Shmork's fond thoughts were short-lived, for standing underneath the lip of the small crag, blanketed in the shadow cast by the Skyforge flames, was Skjor. As Shmork approached the bald man stepped out of the shadows, his silvery left eye suddenly catching the light and flashing, almost like the eyes of a beast in the dark.

Fitting, Shmork thought, considering that armor he's wearing. Skjor's garb was the traditional wolf's armor, a custom steel, blackened and hardened with heat, and trimmed with wolf fur, a style worn by all of the Inner Circle. All save Aela, who wore revealing scraps of leather and cloth that allowed for maximum freedom of movement. During discussions of combat she often stated that a hunter should be swift and silent, felling prey so swiftly that protection becomes redundant. Having seen her lithe movements during hunts, Shmork agreed, and he certainly wasn't going to complain if she wanted to leave so much skin exposed. Skjor, on the other hand was armored from sternum to toe, forgoing a helmet and exposing his balding head and shaved face. The subdued glint of light on his armor and the sword that hung at his waist made Shmork regret once again leaving his own armor behind; his mace was a comfort, but only a small one.

Without warning or greeting Skjor stared into Shmork's eyes and asked,

"Are you prepared?"

Shmork's bright blue eyes returned the man's unnerving glare. With Skjor's right eye being a dark brown and his left a silvery blue, many a warrior was intimidated looking directly into them. Shmork was proud to have overcome the power of that silvery stare.

"I'm ready for whatever test is next." Shmork stated flatly in his deep, throaty voice. Skjor made no mention of the mace that hung at his side, which surprised the Orc. He had fully expected a scolding to start this midnight rendezvous. Skjor seemed more serious than usual however, and he responded with more self-control than Shmork estimated him capable of.

"This is no test, new-blood. This, is a gift. Come inside." He spoke with weight, as if the words he used were carefully chosen with much difficulty. He immediately turned and touched the stone wall behind him, sliding the secret door to the Underforge open and walking through into the dark chamber beyond. Shmork had never seen the Nord act so… enigmatic? Tense? Whatever it was, the Orc was put off his guard by it. He frowned at the bald man's slowly vanishing back, and followed him into the small cave.

The cave was dark, so dark that even Shmork's Orc eyes could make nothing out of the dark shapes that surrounded him. Nothing, except the shining eyes of some beast across the shadowy expanse. Before he could even react, torches flared into existence in two corners of the irregularly shaped room, momentarily blinding him.

"I'm glad you came. It's been a long time since we had a heart like yours among our number." It was only then that Shmork realized that Skjor was standing next to the beast, and it was he that was talking.

"That pitiful ceremony behind the hall does not befit warriors like us. You are due more honor than some calls and feasting." With his eyes now accustomed to the torchlight, Shmork saw the room in greater detail. Skjor and the beast stood with their backs to a wall across from Shmork and the entrance to the cave, and between them was a large bowl, carved from stone, sitting on a wide pedestal of rock that was somewhat conical, wider at the bottom and tapering to be just a few inches smaller than the bowl on top, which Shmork estimated about two feet across in diameter. Shmork saw the beast in greater detail as well.

It had to be over seven feet tall, despite being somewhat crouched over to fit into the cave; Shmork could imagine it stretching out to be much larger. The creature was somewhat humanoid in stature, standing on two legs, with long arms, long fingers, and opposable thumbs. The similarity to a human figure ended there, as the beast was covered in thick, coarse black fur, had the long feet and bent legs of a four-legged animal, and a somewhat bushy tail at the end of it's spine. The most striking feature of all however, was the head, which was the head of a wolf, with dark black, leathery hide on the snout, long yellowish fangs, and yellow eyes that seemed to pulse with bloodlust. Shmork could barely believe his eyes; he was standing across from a werewolf.

In his brief pause, Skjor must have noticed the surprise and shock on Shmork's face. His grim face morphed somewhat as a rough approximation of a smile shone through briefly.

"I would hope you recognize Aela, even in this form. She's agreed to be your forbearer." He said, glancing at the werewolf. The beast lowered it's head, as if in a bow. Shmork looked into it's eyes, and he realized that he could feel something, something familiar. It was as if he could somehow perceive Aela looking back at him from within the depths of those yellow globes. He relaxed a little, no longer feeling the need to flee, but still confused to Oblivion and back as to what exactly was going on.

"We do this in secret," Skjor continued, walking towards Shmork, around the stone bowl, "because Kodlak is too busy trying to throw away this great gift we've been granted." He continued around the bowl, walking in front of Shmork, and stopping on the other side of the bowl, so that the three of them were equally spaced around it.

"He thinks we've been cursed." He turned to Shmork. "But we've been blessed. How can something that gives this kind of prowess be a curse? So we take matters into our own hands. To reach the heights of the Companions, you must join with us in the shared blood of the Wolf."

He stepped around the bowl, coming a little closer to Shmork.

"Are you prepared to join your spirit with the beast world, friend?"

Shmork took a moment to come to terms with the unthinkable situation he now found himself in. The Inner Circle were werewolves! He had only ever heard tales of the beasts, mythical creatures that were ordinary men and women by day, but transformed at a full moon into monsters that killed anything in their path. And yet, here was Aela, a woman he considered a friend, standing there in the flesh of the Wolf, in full control. Shmork had always reveled in the heat of battle; sometimes he felt like a beast, raging through his foes with abandon. He imagined what it would be like to have those claws, to possess the rippling musculature, and powerful jaw full of dagger-like fangs. Shmork hesitated as he remembered what Skjor had said of Kodlak. Kodlak seemed to believe the transformation was not a gift, but some sort of curse.

What might the old man have experienced to believe this ability to be cursed? Shmork thought, Is there some drawback that the others do not see? Or that they are intentionally ignoring? I never took Aela for a fool, passionate and wild, yes, but not foolish.

"What if I don't want to be a werewolf?" Shmork asked in as calm a voice he could manage. Skjor again smiled, the kindest expression Shmork could ever recall seeing on his face.

"That is your choice; we will not force you. But to join the Circle, your blood must be as ours. Meet us here," he gestured to the cave, "when you are ready."

Shmork nodded, looking down, his eyes focused on some distant point in space. He looked up, his course decided, and locked eyes with Skjor.

"I shall return."

And he left the cave.

Emerging from the stone entrance of the hidden grotto, Shmork exhaled a heavy breath that steamed in the chill air. A light summer shower had commenced in the few moments that he had been within the Underforge, and the droplets cooled the fevered greenish skin of the Orc's face, soaking into the cloth on his shoulders and causing a small spate of gooseflesh to ripple across his skin. Shmork rolled his shoulders and began his trudge back toward Jorrvaskr.

He kept his thoughts as calm as he could during the short walk, focusing on the information his senses fed him: on the rain pattering on the paving stones and splattering into small puddles; the caress of droplets running from the strip of dark hair on the center of his head, pulled into a short ponytail, down the exposed sides of his scalp and along the edge of his jaw; the sweet, earthy smell of the dirt and plants thriving on the moisture in the air. Shmork appreciated the grey weather and the darkness of night; he sarcastically thought how rude it would be of the Divines to thrust such weighty topics upon him in the glaring sunlight of day. He took another deep breath, and released it in an equally deep and foggy sigh, opening one of the back doors to the Companions hall.

Once inside, the Orc removed his shirt, and headed toward the large pit fire in the center of the lodge, wiping the wetness from his robust limbs and the thick black hair of his head and short cropped beard. The muscles of his chest, abdomen, and back glistened in the light of the flames, the olive tint of his skin interrupted in many places with pale scars of varying sizes, both features a testament to years spent honing his physical form in the turbulence of combat.

He laid the now thoroughly soaked fabric of his shirt across one of the racks above the flames, resigned to wait for the cloth to dry before he continued the nights events. He ate a small meal of cheese and bread that lay on the table while he waited, more to settle his apprehensive and churning innards than to satisfy hunger.

The hall was normally not an empty or quiet place, but with all of the Companions either sleeping or attending to the numerous vices of the night, the main hall was now deserted. Shmork took the opportunity to sit on the rug next to the fire and relax while his shirt steamed. He absent-mindedly hoped that Kodlak was awake at this late hour, but dismissed the notion of the Harbinger being asleep immediately. Why would one of the Wolf's blood need sleep? Surely nighttime was their preferred hour. The notion bothered him somewhat. What sort of unearthly creature needed no sleep? He shrugged off the idea and allowed his contemplations to wander elsewhere, hopefully to more agreeable subjects.

After several moments however, he found the task impossible, his thoughts always returning to the task at hand; he caught himself trying to reconcile the beast he had seen in the cave with the normally pleasing form of the huntress Aela. He huffed with irritation, rising quickly from his seat on the woven rug and snatching his shirt out of the heat above the flames. He pulled the shirt over his head and forcefully pushed his arms into it's short sleeves as he walked toward the southern end of the lodge, targeting the stone staircase that ran perpendicular to the hall's elongated sides and down into the ground. Despite his uneasy disposition, he pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs gently and quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone sleeping, or enjoying an evening's distraction, as he entered the common hallway.

He turned right upon entering the stone corridor, lit dimly but comfortably by candles on tables and in sconces on the walls. He passed the sleeping quarters of his comrades, a room filled with beds, dressers, and a few tables. He heard the distinctive snoring of the often-drunk Nord Torvar, probably passed out in his filthy leather armor again, and quietly beneath the noise he thought he could make out whispered voices of other Companions.

He wondered if they knew what he now knew, if they were aware of the dark blood-secret of the Inner Circle. And if they knew, how many of them aspired to join in the revels of the Wolf-flesh? Upon further contemplation, Shmork was sure the secret was well kept; he imagined the indignant and angry faces of the trusting and honorable warriors of the hall, finding out that their heroes shared the blood of beasts. The young Njada Stonearm, more Nord-like than most of the other warriors, particularly came to his mind. The naïve girl would most likely have demanded a duel to the death with each of the Inner Circle if she found out what they were hiding. The thought made Shmork both smile with amusement and shudder with dread.

He continued past the rooms of the Inner Circle, and through the doors that marked the foyer before Kodlak's private chamber. He found the proud Nord warrior sitting calmly within the entrance chamber, staring idly at the tapestries and animal trophies that decorated the walls and tables of the room. Kodlak was much older than Shmork, but not a decrepit or weak old man. He wore the wolf armor of the Companions, and his form beneath the metal was one of strength and resolve. His flowing hair and long beard were white as snow, hence his title of Whitemane, and his solid, blocky brows were bleached by age to match. He bared a visage similar to many Nord men Shmork had interacted with; a stony solid jaw, a somewhat large and slightly hooked nose, and a fierce brow that projected slightly, casting shadows over the eyes. Kodlak's countenance was slightly softened this night, his usual confident and wise expression tempered by what Shmork could only describe as regret.

The Harbinger preempted Shmork's rising questions by saying enigmatically, seemingly to himself,

"Sometimes, in my dreams, I see the mists of Sovngarde beckoning," he looked toward Shmork, who had stopped just within the doorway to the room.

"What do you know of our afterlife, boy? Do you know the stories of Sovngarde?" Kodlak was sitting at a table in the corner of the room, where two chairs faced each other on the round side of the table that faced the room. It was a place he often used to give advice to Companions, and the occasional scolding when it was needed. He motioned to the chair opposite him now.

"Come and sit lad. My mind grows heavy with thoughts of the other world. I could use a friendly ear."

Shmork's thoughts grew ever more muddled. He had not realized it, but he had entered the room with accusations on his tongue, forcing their way up past the questions he had planned to ask. All of those things fell away as he considered the Harbinger's morose mannerism. Perhaps he could learn some of what he wanted to know, albeit in a round-about fashion, by letting Kodlak lead the conversation. He obliged the request and crossed the room, dropping into the seat opposite Kodlak.

"I know some of your beliefs, Master, they are shared freely amongst your people." Shmork began, his voice rumbling to a start in its gravelly bass tones, "The Nords believe that by living the righteous life of a warrior, they will be honored by the god Shor in the next world, and allowed into his Hall of Valor in Sovngarde, where they will feast and revel with Nord heroes from all of history."

Shmork attempted to make his answer sound simple, as though he had really learned of it through the overheard chatter of Nords, when in reality he had read at least three books on the subject. It was a habit of his, to make his statements sound plain and dull, developed in the face of the notion that an educated Orc was something of much amusement to the average human or elf. Even those close to the Orc would be rather surprised to learn of the extent of his knowledge, particularly in the area of magic. Kodlak however, was not so easily fooled.

The old warrior chuckled, closing his eyes and shaking his head at the Orc's unavoidable modesty.

"I'm of the opinion that you know more than you let on, but yes, that is the concept, albeit condensed considerably. Many a Nord lives his life in pursuit of honor and glory in combat, to one day see himself elevated to the equal of the great Nord heroes he hears stories of his entire life. It is even more true of the Companions, who have lived and fought in the tradition of Skyrim for millennia. Although I fear that perhaps the more recent generations have lost sight of that lofty goal. It seems the thrill of battle, the call of the hunt, is the only thing they yearn for…" He trailed off, his gaze again growing distant, and his brow furrowing.

There was a long pause, as if Kodlak had forgotten Shmork was sitting there. The sorrow on his leader's face made Shmork uncomfortable.

"Master?"

Kodlak glanced up from his reverie, the trance of his innermost contemplations broken by the tone of concern in his young friend's voice. A thin, tight-lipped smile crossed his face, Kodlak's best attempt at a conciliatory expression for the Orc.

"My apologies lad, as I said, my thoughts have grown dark this night. But, I am heartened of your knowledge of the old ways. It does me good to know they will survive, even if they may not be as strong as they once were. Now, was there something you came to see me about? Not often I get a visitor in the middle of the night for an idle chat!" the old Nord chuckled.

Shmork had heard all he needed to hear. He had sympathy for the old man; it must be no easy experience, watching the world change around you as the end of your own life nears. The Orc was fond of Kodlak, but it now seemed to Shmork that the reasons behind Kodlak's fear of the beast-blood was based almost solely in religion and spiritual belief, things the Orc did not share with the Nord. It appeared as if Kodlak regretted his so-called curse because it did not align with his ideals for the Nord lifestyle.

Shmork was no Nord, and just as he did not allow the barbaric ways of his Orc brethren to stop him from growing intellectually and experiencing different cultures, he would not allow the religious beliefs of the Nords to be the only obstacle between himself and another new experience.

The Orc returned his Master's smile.

"No Harbinger, I only sought some company this night." He hoped Khodlak would be too distracted by his own thoughts to see past the falsehood.

"Well, an old sleepless man like myself could always use an idle chit-chat." The old man returned.

As their conversation ambled along various subjects of unimportance, Shmork came to realize he was not afraid of the Wolf-blood. The reticence, verging on weakness, that Kodlak had shown him this night had brought to the surface a desire he had unknowingly been wrestling with all night; he wanted the power of the Wolf.

Recalling Aela's beast form, he now could merge it perfectly with her personality. He realized that the Wolf was the epitome of the hunter, the fierce and silent power of the predator. Before the revelations of this grey night, Aela was all that embodied these traits in Shmork's mind; he had respected her for it, and now he respected her even more for taking the leap of faith and bathing in the glory that was the ultimate hunt. Shmork would join her in that glory.

Having summed up another joke concerning the copious amounts of mead the foolish Torvar consumed, Shmork stretched and stood from his chair.

"I thank you, Master, for indulging me this late at night. Now, however, I find myself needing sleep."

"Of course lad, of course," Kodlak said, nodding his head and also rising to his feet, "I hope I haven't bored you with the foolish ramblings of an old Nord past his prime, eh?" Smiling, he reach out his right arm toward Shmork, a sign of kinship.

Shmork grasped his mentors forearm, genuinely proud to know the man. He assured Kodlak that he had enjoyed their talk, and then made his exit.

He walked back down the hall, up the stairs into the lodge, and then out into the cold rain of the night. After a few moments of brisk walking, Shmork once again moved through the stone portal to the Underforge.

Skjor didn't seem surprised to see him, but nevertheless said,

"Back so soon? Have you made your decision?"

Shmork looked from Skjor to Aela, in beast form, and then back again.

"I'm ready."

Skjor studied the Orc for a moment.

"Very well."

Skjor drew his sword, causing Shmork to take a step back, and place his right hand on the mace at his side. Skjor seemed not to notice, and walked around the stone bowl in the center of the chamber, away from Shmork.

When he reached Aela, she extended one of her long, fur-covered limbs out over the bowl, where Skjor grasped her forearm in his left hand. With his right, he drew the edge of his blade across her palm, drawing a line of thick, red blood, and a small sniff of pain from the werewolf. Skjor stood there holding her arm above the stone bowl for a few moments, allowing the blood to pool in the depression.

To Shmork's amazement, Aela did not withdraw her arm and then nurse the wound, as any other might do, but simply stopped bleeding. The wound slowly closed up, right in front of Shmork's eyes, as if a healing spell had been cast. But Shmork felt no energy flow that would accompany magic, and concluded that the rapid healing was another power of the beast form.

Skjor produced a small kerchief from beneath his belt and wiped the blood from his sword. He sheathed the blade, and the sound of metal scraping on wood sent a chill up Shmork's spine. The Nord looked up at Shmork, and gestured at the bowl.

"The blood calls, brother."

Shmork understood. The Orc stepped forward and placed his hands on the sides of the bowl. He bent over slowly at the waist, supporting himself on the stone, and lowered his face toward the viscous red liquid. The strong metallic smell of gore entered his nostrils, a smell he was familiar with from years of battle. It made his heart pump even faster, and his blood boil with the lust for combat. Shmork reluctantly dipped his lips into the warm liquid, and drank.

The taste of iron filled his mouth and throat, nearly choking the normally strong-stomached Orc. He managed to swallow the foul drink, and immediately felt queasy. His head swam, his vision blurred, and the Orc fell down on one knee. He began to try and question Skjor, fearing poison, but was too overcome. The Orc fell to the floor, his last impressions consisting of writhing on the ground, a fierce hunger for more blood, and then blackness.

II: The Silver Hand

The first thing Shmork noticed when he awoke was that he was outside. He heard the calls of crickets and other creatures of the night. When he opened his eyes he saw the starry sky above him, and glancing down, across his prone form, he saw Aela standing near him, her back turned to him. As he sat up to hoist himself off the ground, she turned to face him.

Her features were once again human; her reddish-brown, chin length hair hung loosely in wild tresses and sporadic braids, and she wore her usual hunting garb of leather and fur that left the majority of her arms and legs open to the cold air. Her skin shone a pale pink in the moonlight, blemished only by a dark-green war paint that cloaked her limbs in irregular blotches, and obscured her face in three large diagonal streaks. Beneath the paint, her bright grey eyes gleamed like orbs of polished steel. On her back hung a quiver of arrows and a finely crafted bow of ebony.

"Are you awake?" she asked, her sonorous and confident voice a familiar and welcome sound, "I was starting to think you would never come back."

Shmork shook his head, feeling strange, as if he had had too much to drink, but somehow sharper. It was a feeling of lightness in his limbs, with a buzz of warmth in his stomach, but instead of his senses being dulled, it was like they had been slightly enhanced beyond normal function.

"What? What happened?" he asked slowly, looking at his hands as he clenched and unclenched them. He also noticed that he was no longer wearing his clothes, with only his under-breeches still wrapped around his waist.

"You were born into the pack, brother." the Nord woman said with a smile. "I almost envy you. That first time is always the most… intense. You gave us even more trouble than Farkas did at his first turning."

Shmork tried to recall the night before, what he had experienced after partaking in Aela's blood. What appeared to him was slow in coming, but intense.

The feel of the wind rushing through his fur… a startled scream in the night… torchlight in the distance, men rushing about… fear and joy in bloodlust… his claws rending cloth and skin… the sweet taste of flesh… roaring at the bright moon…

Shmork came back to himself in a cold sweat. His heart was pounding with excitement, adrenaline pumping. He felt so alive, bursting with energy. Aela took notice of his shivering, concerned as to whether he felt afraid or excited. She crouched before him, her eyebrows coming together in a rare expression of concern.

"Yours was not an easy transformation, but you're still alive, so congratulations." her eyes widened and her features relaxed into a look of excitement, "We even have a celebration planned for you. There's a pack of werewolf hunters camped nearby. Part of a group called the Silver Hand. They've taken over a fort near Gallows Rock." Aela then bore the same expression she always had before a hunt; a hard smile of determination and anticipation.

"We're going to kill them; all of them."

Shmork's blood was aflame, her words stoking the fire in his soul; he craved the conflict, but his reason got the better of him.

"What do you mean, werewolf hunters? They know about the Companions?" he asked grimly.

"Yes, they have aligned themselves against us because of what we are. But they are not as noble as the title of hunter might make them seem. They find those like us, with the blood of the Wolf, and kill them for bounty or sport; whether or not the poor sods they kill are guilty of anything is irrelevant to them. They are murderers."

Her words seemed slightly over-defensive to Shmork, but he didn't doubt their truth. If Aela said there were enemies to be dealt with, Shmork would comply. Especially with the heat of battle blazing in his belly.

"Hmm. Well," he said, rising to his feet, "let's show them what happens when you try to hunt the better hunter." he said with a grim smile.

Aela returned his expression, glad that her Shield-Brother seemed to be coming around to his old self.

"Your weapons and armor are over there, behind that tree. You won't be able to transform again for some time, so you should gear up and prepare for battle." She gestured to a large tree nearby, and Shmork headed in that direction.

"Just the two of us, then?" he asked as he unpacked his belongings.

"Skjor scouts ahead; we will join him before the assault." Aela responded casually.

Shmork strapped on his Orcish cuirass, smithed by his own hands in the style and metal of his people. It had taken much work and searching to find the metal and learn the best ways to forge it, but it had been worth it. The armor was some of the strongest in the world. The design was somewhat jagged, and consisted of overlapping plates with tapering ends, reminiscent of scales on a great beast. Shmork also equipped his matching gauntlets, greaves, and boots, as well as his tasseled helm with its open face, protected by a nose piece coming down in front of his brow and two side-burn like plates covering his cheeks. The metal, called Orichalcum in the common tongue, took on a dull green color once it was shaped and cooled, the tone several shades darker than Shmork's skin.

The Orc was glad to see that his comrades had also brought his bow and his quiver of arrows. As he slung them onto his back he asked,

"What did old Skjor have to say during my, er, initiation?" Shmork asked, searching briefly for the right word to describe his first romp in the flesh of the Wolf. Aela hid a small laugh from her friend.

"He cursed the entire time," she answered through her amusement, "saying what a foolish idea it had been to bring someone as uncontrollable as you into the pack. Smiling all the while, of course."

Shmork smiled too, returning from the tree fully armed and armored, including his mace and shield, the latter now strapped to his left arm. The Orc cleared his throat dramatically, and said in his best impression of a bard's sing-song voice:

"Shall we hunt, Shield-Sister?"

There was a gleam in Aela's eyes as they locked onto Shmork's.

"Aye, Shield-Brother, let us hunt!"

The two Companions made their way quietly through the forest, toward Gallows Rock. Shmork didn't know how far they were from Whiterun, but he could make out the peak of the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in Skyrim, in the skyline to the southwest. The great mountain was south of Whiterun, so he assumed they were somewhere to the east of his home, off of the tundra and into one of Skyrim's many mountain ranges.

After only a moment of walking they came to the entrance of the fort, a crumbling stone ruin. The fort had been constructed with an outer wall, a small courtyard, and a square keep, with a stone tower rising out of the keep at the center and furthest point from the wall's gate. The entire structure was nestled against a tall stone cliff. The outer wall had been significantly damaged some time ago, and lay mostly in ruins, with the remains sticking out of the snow at various angles, the top walkway now slanting diagonally. The hole where a gate would have been was now crooked like most of the wall, and missing any remains of a door or portcullis. The warriors stopped next to the gaping arch, crouching in the deep snow, to assess their next move.

"Where is Skjor? Wasn't he supposed to meet us here?" Shmork asked, keeping his voice low to avoid alerting any nearby sentries. Aela was equally cautious, and a measure more concerned.

"Aye. He must've gotten tired of waiting, perhaps he is already inside." she offered, somewhat doubtfully.

Shmork's brow furrowed in thought. On their approach he had noticed a single guard on the wooden walkway that had been built haphazardly on the lip of the square keep, and he doubted there was only one. If Skjor was inside the ruin, surely battle would have already been joined. If that were the case, this scout should have joined the struggle within, or at least been slain by Skjor before hand.

Aela noticed the Orc's musings and his worried expression. Shmork knew by her next statement that she had followed the same line of reasoning that he had.

"He must have gotten in without being spotted. Even Skjor can employ stealth when the mood strikes him." She attempted to put a degree of levity into her voice, to ease their collective worry, but the lines on Shmork's brow beneath the lip of his helm only deepened in response.

"Let's get in there." he said grimly, looking straight into the courtyard past the entryway, "Cover me."

He didn't wait for her response, instead rising from his crouched position and starting briskly through the arch. He started gaining speed, drawing his mace from his belt and raising his shield. Aela took a moment to begin her own charge, readying her bow and drawing back an arrow.

When he entered the courtyard, Shmork noticed a small campfire and a tent to his left; straight ahead and to his right rose the ruin. Sitting next to the campfire was a guard in simple fur armor, and upon seeing the man, Shmork broke out into a run, bellowing as he charged.

The sentry scrambled backwards off of his log seat, cursing in surprise and drawing his sword clumsily in his haste and fear. He barely managed to get the blade up in time to deflect the looping, overhead blow of Shmork's mace.

The force of the blow unbalanced the man, causing him to lower his head for a moment in the motion of maintaining his balance. Shmork took the opportunity to slam the rim of his shield into the warriors face, cutting a line under one of the man's eyes. Reeling from the force of the blow, the guard made a desperate and mostly blind swipe with his blade, Shmork catching the glancing blow easily on his shield. The Orc swept his mace up in a quick stabbing motion, hitting his opponent squarely in the stomach and knocking the breath out of him. Drawing his mace back in front of his shield, Shmork lashed out backhand with the shining bronze weapon, striking the man across his temple, collapsing his skull, tearing away a portion of his face, and killing him instantly. As the corpse fell away from him and Shmork settled back into a ready position, he remember the sentry on the walkway.

Just as an arrow whizzed by his face and clanged across the lip of his shield.

Shmork spun around just in time to block the next missile, the long-haired archer releasing a stream of curses toward the Orc in tandem with the arrow, something about his mother copulating with trolls. Aela had caught up by that time, and fired her own arrow, cutting a gash in the loud man's shoulder.

"Take him, I have your back!" she shouted to Shmork, taking cover behind a piece of stone debris as the archer loosed a shot at his new target.

Shmork wasted no time, and ran toward the foot of the wooden ramp that led up to the walkway. The guard attempted to stop the Orc before he could reach the walkway, but had trouble finding time to aim a clean shot while dodging Aela's own arrows. He fired one more shot toward her to give himself a moment, and then dropped his bow. He started toward the ramp, meaning to meet Shmork halfway up it, grabbing a shield from the ground and drawing his sword on the way, and then he was upon the Orc.

Shmork cursed silently as the sentry cleverly took the high ground, waiting for Shmork at the top of the ramp. He swung down at Shmork, forcing the Orc on the defensive. They exchanged a few blows, then Shmork gained the upper hand with another thrust of his shield, sending the warriors' sword arm flailing out wide and completely exposing him. As Shmork raised his mace to deliver the final blow, wordlessly roaring his victory, he heard the twang of a bow string, and an arrow pierced his opponent's neck.

The guard, his eyes wide open in shock, fell to the wooden floor with a gurgling sound, dropping his weapon and shield as he hit the ground, and then slid down the ramp past Shmork. The Orc lowered his mace and turned to face Aela, who was standing in the center of the courtyard with a smug grin on her face.

"I had that one!" he shouted with feigned anger.

"You'll have to be faster than that if you wish to out-hunt me, Orc!" Aela laughed.

Shmork stomped down the ramp, making quite a ruckus in his heavy armor. They met at the large wooden door in the center of the keep's wall.

"I'll make sure to stay between you and my opponents from now on." he said, frowning playfully at Aela.

"And I will try not to shoot you anywhere fatal." she quipped in return. They allowed themselves to enjoy the thrill of camaraderie for a moment more, smiling at each other, then, remembering Skjor's absence again, they regained their grim battle expressions and held their weapons ready. Aela slowly opened the door, and Shmork led their way into the gloomy interior.

They found themselves in a square entrance chamber, with two low burning braziers on either side of the room. Across the stone floor was an iron portcullis, currently lowered. In the middle of the room was a metal spiked pole, 5 feet long, embedded in the floor. Skewered on top of it was the unmistakable shape of a werewolf head.

Shmork grimaced at the thing, but moved across the room to the gate. Aela muttered something under her breath and followed. When they reached the gate she uttered contemptuously,

"Look at this. Cowards must have locked the place down after Skjor charged in. You can taste the fear."

Shmork wasn't so sure. The smell of fear and death was strong about the place, but that was usually the case in conflict. Looking around he spotted a chain on the wall nearby with a circle of iron on the end. He pulled it down, and with the clanking of an unseen mechanism, the gate raised out of the doorway and into the ceiling. The doorway sat at the top of a long stairwell, and Shmork crept down it as quietly as he could in his armor, Aela following closely. With his hearing now somewhat enhanced by the Wolf's blood in his veins, her light breathing seemed unnaturally loud.

The stairwell ended at another chamber opening to their left, this one longer than the first and lined in the center with stone supports. Shmork could see a large fire of some sort burning in the far end of the room, blurring the rest of the chamber's layout. There was a person's form sitting in a chair in front of the flames, back turned to the Companions. Shmork moved swiftly down the hall, raising his mace to strike, but the form must have heard his footsteps. The man, for it was a man, with the dark brown skin of a Redguard, turn and looked directly at Shmork.

Right before the mace fell.

Shmork's mighty blow, accompanied by a long grunt from the Orc, whistled through the air and smashed into the sentry's skull, driving the life out of him before he could cry out. The blow had such force behind it that the mans head, neck, and the upper part of his torso caved in, and his body crumpled to the floor. Another warrior, a woman, had been sitting unseen to Shmork's left, and was now rising, sword drawn, as her ally fell.

"By Ysmir you won't leave here alive, dog!" she yelled, charging Shmork. He easily parried the first swing of her sword with his mace, the clang echoing in the stone hall, right before an arrow from Aela's bow pierced her back, precisely between her shoulder blades. Ignoring the look of pain and fear that crossed the woman's face, Shmork shoved her back against a nearby pillar with his shield, stepped back, and then swept the sharp outer rim of it across her throat. A gout of blood coated the front of her leather tunic, and then she fell quietly to the ground, the sigh of her last breath leaving her muffled by her closeness to the floor.

This chamber was much larger than the first, with the hall leading to the room they now stood in. It was wide, with several tables against the walls, although the ceiling was still low. There were three wooden doors in the room, a closed door on both the west and south walls, but the northern was open. Shmork headed towards it, but as he approached he noticed the door only lead to a small storage space. Instead of the expected shelves or barrels of provisions, however, the only content of the storeroom was the beaten and broken body of a werewolf in beast form, hung from the ceiling by one of it's wrists.

"There's a dead one, isn't there?" Aela asked, a little too casually for the situation. She stepped in front of the door way with Shmork, quickly taking in the sight.

"Thought so. Nobody we know, by the smell." She said looking at Shmork, who could not take his eyes off the dead creature. "Some can't separate the animal from themselves," she continued, "they go feral. This poor sod could have been anyone."

It could've been us, Shmork thought.

Any reservations he had about fighting these Silver Hand hunters diminished at that point, reduced to only the small regret he normally felt at ending any other sentient life. As much as he enjoyed combat, Shmork was not one who enjoyed killing for it's own sake. But killing for a cause, a noble cause, that he could take pleasure in.

Aela perceived that the sight of the dead lycanthrope may have caused her friend more discomfort than it did her. "We should keep moving," she said in a gentler tone. Shmork grunted his agreement and moved toward the western door.

The door had no handle, and when he pushed on it, it held firmly. He motioned Aela over, and the two companions put their shoulders to the door and gave a single, mighty shove, but still the door held. Shmork surmised that the door was barred from the other side, and they agreed to take the only other route, the southern door.

It pushed open easily enough, and Shmork once again led the way through the portal. They walked single file down a somewhat cramped hallway, no longer caring for stealth. Shmork's blood-lust was roused, and demanded to be sated. The hallway was more moldy and moist than the previous chambers, with pools of water frequent at the warriors' feet. As the hall ended they came upon a small landing before a wide stone stair, and, sitting on the floor of the landing, a fat skeever.

Shmork had dealt with these beasts before. They were basically overgrown, feral rats; almost three feet long from their twitchy noses to the tips of their pink tails, with large incisors for biting, clawed feet for burrowing, and no real intelligence to speak of. This particular skeever must have been something of a pet, for instead of the lean, almost starved appearance of a sewer rat, it had the plump belly of an overfed house cat.

Despite it's almost comical obesity, the thing hissed and bared its fangs at the duo when they exited the hallway, and proceeded to charge them. Shmork easily kicked it aside, giving it the opportunity to flee. With the characteristic tenacity and single-mindedness of it's kind, however, the skeever flopped over back onto it's short legs and once again wriggled toward them, reciting a sharp squeaking and hissing song all the while. Shmork put an abrupt end to the cacophony with a swipe of his mace, knocking the creature into the wall for a second time, where it laid still.

"No surprise they keep vermin around." Aela snorted, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Filthy squalor."

They made their way up the stairs, and ran headlong into two Silver Hand members talking next to a table. This time Aela was the first to strike, drawing her bow and releasing an arrow into the upper left arm of one of their opponents, a Redguard woman. The two Silver Hand were quick to react, the woman cursing her injury and drawing a sword with her undamaged right hand, and the other, an Orc wearing a full suit of iron armor, pulled the two-handed greatsword from his back. Shmork moved forward to guard Aela while she exchanged her bow for her own sword. He was accustomed to fighting multiple opponents, but the two surprised him with how well they worked together.

The Orc reigned down a heavy blow, keeping Shmork very occupied blocking the force of his strike, while the woman circled toward Shmork's right side, where his shield would offer little protection. Shmork swiped at her to keep her at bay, a blow she easily parried. He had to raise his shield again quickly to stop another blow from the enemy Orc; a low stab that surely would have skewered Shmork. They exchanged a few more attacks, Shmork taking a few nicks and cuts, mostly to his armor, until Aela rejoined the battle.

She charged in at Shmork's right side, battering the woman away from him with a flurry of blows. Able to now focus on his Orc opponent and analyze his technique, Shmork began to calculate his best opportunity to strike. The Orc was more skilled than he might realize, for he kept Shmork too busy parrying and blocking for Shmork to make any real strikes. Shmork feinted quickly toward his opponents left knee, as if attempting to cripple the Orc, and the iron-clad dupe bought it. He lowered his large blade to intercept the attack, and Shmork instead slammed his shield upward into the Orc's face. The Orc cursed, his words garbled in the blood from his broken nose, and swung wide to get some space. Shmork stepped back to avoid the swing, and then shuffled forward to keep his advantage.

Further into the room, the two women were having a similar duel, matching each other's blows. After only a few seconds it was obvious to both participants that Aela was the greater swordswoman, so the Redguard changed tactics.

"You dogs make me sick," she spat at Aela between the jolts of their blades colliding, "you filthy mongrels deserve to die, just like all the rest of your kind." She glanced at the two orcs dueling, trying to find something to unnerve Aela. "Is that one your mate? Does he have his way with you when you're in heat? Or just whenever the mood strikes him?" she goaded, "Has the Orc made you his bitch?" she yelled with a sneer.

Aela, always one for keeping her wits under pressure, furrowed her brows at that insult. With the swiftness only those in complete control can accomplish, she blocked another blow from the Redguard, grabbed the woman's sword hand with her left hand, and then bent forward and cut behind her opponent's knee. The Redguard gasped in surprise and fell to a kneel before Aela, relinquishing her sword in the process. She stared up into Aela's face as the Nord woman strode closer, her blade coming up to rest under the helpless Redguard's chin. Aela smiled, a radiant, happy smile, her voice laced with the most poisonous mockery she could muster when she said,

"No. But I have made you mine." And she swiftly beheaded the woman.

When she turned to help Shmork, he was already headed toward an obvious win. The Silver Hand Orc was panting and bleeding from under his armor in several places, where Shmork's mace had created dents and tears. Even now the Orc was barely defending himself from a flurry of blows from Aela's comrade, and with a swift yanking motion of his shield, Shmork disarmed the werewolf hunter. Left exposed and hopeless, the Orc thrust his arms out to either side and said defiantly, "Do it! Send me to Malacath with glory!" naming the Daedric Prince many orcs worshipped. Shmork obliged, killing the Orc in an instant with a final swing of his mace.

The Companions panted for a moment, resting briefly from their hard-won victory as the room was enveloped in quiet. Shmork inspected a few of his minor cuts. Even though they were small, each one burned as if fire had been put to them. Aela, noticing his concerned expression, offered an explanation.

"It's silver. The cuts burn, yes?" Shmork nodded, looking up at her. She had received several cuts of her own.

"The Wolf's blood makes us vulnerable to it. They coat their weapons with it to pierce our hides more easily, and prolong our suffering when they torture us." she continued, examining her own cuts. "It also makes the wounds slower to heal. No matter; let us continue."

"Wait," the Orc said quietly, moving toward her and placing both his shield and mace on the nearby table.

"What is it?" she asked, impatient to be off.

"Here. Hold still a moment."

Shmork placed his right hand on Aela's chest, and his left hand on his own, and began to murmur under his breath, too quietly for Aela to make out what he was saying. Suddenly a light sprung into existence beneath both of his hands, and Aela felt a wave of relief wash over her. Her wounds stopped burning, itched for a moment, and then closed completely, the pain disappearing, and she noticed his own injuries doing the same. Shmork raised his eyes to hers, and maintained the contact of his palm on her chest for a moment longer, his callused fingertips resting on the soft skin of her exposed collarbone, just above her leather vest.

Aela swallowed, trying to get her mouth clear enough to speak. She hesitated a bit when the words finally came to her.

"My thanks. I feel… better."

Shmork shifted his gaze away and withdrew his hand, a strange look behind his blue irises. Was it shame? Embarrassment? Aela could not tell, but it made her sad for a moment.

"It's nothing. Let's keep moving." he said dismissively, retrieving his equipment from the table.

The fighters passed through another doorway into a long room with a wall in the center, making the chamber feel like two connected hallways. On both of the long sides of the room were several cells with iron bars for doors. At the far end of the chamber were two more guards, talking quietly. They were facing each, perpendicular to the Companions' entry point, and thus they did not see Shmork and Aela creep in and take cover behind a large bale of straw.

Shmork gently placed his mace and shield on the floor in front of him, and pulled his bow from its place on his back. He whispered to Aela as he did so.

"Let's take them both at the same time; I would rather not feel the sting of silver again so soon."

"Aye," Aela replied, "I'll take the left.

They both drew their bows back fully, carefully aiming at their targets to ensure clean, synchronous kills. At Shmork's signal, they fired, the two arrows flying swiftly side by side down the hall. The two guards never had a clear winner in their debate, concerning which of the maidens they courted in Riften earlier that month was the finer; never had a clue that they were being watched. Both slipped into blackness instantly, one with an arrow in his ear, the other with a shaft in his temple.

Slipping his bow back behind him, Shmork nodded in satisfaction with the smoothness of the attack. He gathered his equipment again and they moved down the hall. They noticed that cells on either side of the chamber held the bodies of several more werewolves. They walked along quickly, both avoiding looking directly at the corpses.

To hunt feral werewolves was not itself an act of evil to the two heroes. Slaying monsters that threatened people just by existing was one of their most common jobs after all. It was that fact that caused Shmork to hesitate when Aela had first described their foes. This, however, was not monster-slaying. Torturing animals, even animals as dangerous as werewolves who have lost themselves to the beast, was not protecting anyone. It was cruel, senseless evil. Aela broke the silence that grew between them.

"Nothing we can do for these ones now. Don't even want to think about what those cretins did to them before they d-"

She stopped abruptly as they came to the final cage, and they both stared in at what it held. Crouching at the back of the cage, shining eyes darting between the two of them beneath it's heavy brow, was a living werewolf in beast form.

Shmork and Aela glanced at each other in disbelief.

"It's not Skjor, is it?" Shmork asked.

"No, I would be able to smell it. I don't know this one," she said, shaking her head.

"Hello in there. Can you understand me?" Shmork prompted. The beast just continued to stare. Shmork, reached for the cage handle.

"What are you doing?" Aela asked.

"I'm letting it out."

"You can't!" she whispered forcefully, grabbing his arm, "That thing has probably gone feral, it's not even human anymore!"

"I don't care Aela! Better to run free and live a beast than die starved in a cage!"

She looked at the pitiful thing, cowering in the corner. Releasing Shmork's arm, she stretched a hand toward the cage.

"What are you-" Shmork began to ask, but Aela cut him off.

"Shh. Watch."

The beast's ears perked up. Aela slipped a finger through the bars, and the werewolf lunged forward. Aela withdrew her hand a fraction of a second before the jaws snapped shut at the bars. The werewolf stood and gripped the cage with its long hands, growling at the Companions. It's ribcage stood out, and most of it's bones were visible under it's hide. Whoever the werewolf had been, they were gone, replaced by a beast that had been tortured and starved. It collapsed to it's knees after a moment, too exhausted to remain standing.

"It will try to kill us Shmork, it's a beast now. There is nothing we can do." She looked at her friend with pity in her eyes. He always had been a bit soft-hearted, especially for an Orc. She knew he was grappling with the reality that he could not help the creature, though he desired it so.

The Orc locked eyes with his companion, digesting her words, though the reality of them made his stomach churn. He felt a bond with this creature, a bond born of his newly obtained powers. One day he could be in the same position, lost to the beast within and trapped in a cage to rot away in the dark. He knew the fate he would want before facing that living hell.

Shmork glared at the beast in the cage, hating that the Silver Hand had done this to it, hating them for forcing him into this situation, and hating himself for the decision he had made. There is nothing we can do, she had said.

"There is something."

He once again slipped his bow off of his back, and notched an arrow on the string. He pulled up the weapon, sighting through the bars of the cage at the tragic creature that sat before him. Aela's hand came to a rest on his arm again, halting him and drawing his eyes to her face.

"Together," she said, withdrawing her hand and notching her own arrow across her bow. Shmork nodded, and turned his eyes back to the cage. He silently apologized to the beast; apologized for the life it had lost after it's transformation, for the torment it had faced at the malice of the Silver Hand, and for the terrible, pitiful end it had come to.

Peace in the next world, brother of my blood.

Bow strings twanged, and a single, glistening tear found it's way down green skin into the black hair of the Orc's short beard.

III: Tooth and Claw

There was little resistance within the next few rooms the two warriors moved through. Shmork's rage was burning strong now, like a bonfire newly fed with oil and wood, and the few Silver Hand that got in his way were put to a quick and brutal end. Aela was concerned for her friend, but her worry was dwarfed by her own bloodlust and her admiration for the Orc's ferocity.

One warrior they faced had seemed to think Shmork adhered to the stereotypes directed toward his people, and made quips about his intelligence while they fought, mostly relying on 'stupid Orc' as his favorite insult. With a smooth and lightning-fast motion, Shmork disarmed the man, and then forced him to his knees by twisting his right hand backwards. As the bravado in the man's face was replaced by fear, Shmork asked in a dark and threatening tone,

"Can you use magic, my friend?"

The warrior, a confused look in his eye, shook his head no in response.

"I suppose that makes sense," Shmork continued speculatively, "as it takes quite a large amount of study to produce any results in the arcane arts. Tell me, can you even read?"

"W-well, yes, a little—"

"Well, you see, it takes more than 'a little' reading to use magic, my friend."

As he spoke Shmork raised his right hand, the one not currently crippling his opponent, and summoned a rippling globule of fire in his palm.

"I should know. I spent many weeks learning how to cast this spell."

He released the warrior's hand, took a single step back, and jabbed his right hand toward his opponent. Two inches from the man's head, Shmork's hand stopped and a torrent of flame blasted out of his open palm into the kneeling warrior's face. The man screamed for a brief moment, before his head was burned to a black stump in the heat of Shmork's magic. Halting the flow of magic, the Orc retrieved his dropped equipment from the stone floor, and muttered under his breath, "Stupid human."

As they moved through the stone ruins, they couldn't help but notice the recurring theme of mutilation and torture. Werewolf heads were on display frequently, which Shmork had expected, but worse than the trophies were the corpses in human form that were often displayed, or found on tables where dissections had occurred. Each step into the horrid place made Shmork more disgusted and angry. He hoped they would find Skjor soon so they could leave this thrice-blasted fort.

They soon came to a door that seemed to be at the center of the entire structure. Written across the wood in what was undeniably blood was the word 'Skinner.' Shmork cast a questioning look at Aela.

"It's the name of one of their leaders, probably the commander of this bunch. I'm sure you can imagine how he earned that title."

Shmork could imagine, and did. The thought only served to ignite even more fire in his soul. He rolled his shoulders, and drew his mace.

"We charge in on three."

"Understood." Aela answered, drawing her sword and pulling her shield from her back.

"One," the Orc said, his shoulders heaving with anticipation.

The companions had grown more worried about Skjor as they moved through the stronghold. They hadn't found their friend anywhere else in the ruins; he had to be past this door.

"Two," he rumbled through clenched teeth.

Shmork gripped his mace. He was going to kill them. Kill them all. No matter what.

"Three!" he nearly shouted. He and Aela smashed against the door together, knocking the heavy wooden construct off of it's hinges, and charged into the room.

The first thing Shmork noticed when he entered the room was a warrior in full steel plate standing on a raised dais in the center of the room. Arrayed around him were several Silver Hand warriors, all with weapons drawn and grim looks on their faces. Next Shmork noted the size of the place. The chamber was wide and tall, an almost perfect cube except for the round roof. A stone pillar stretched to the ceiling in each of the four corners. The man in the armor's face was hidden by his helm, but Shmork could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke.

"Greetings! Welcome to Gallows Rock. My name is Skinner, and I run this motley crew," he paused, as if to allow the statement to sink in in, and then continued, "I would introduce you to my friends, but they're not nearly as excited to see you as I am. They're not very fond of werewolves. Especially ones who've spent quite a lot of energy to track us down and kill our fellows."

His voice had an unmistakable Imperial accent, and was laced with levity, as if simply entertaining unpleasant visitors. Skinner stepped down from the dais to ground level with his followers.

"You see, unlike my comrades, I do not detest your kind. I quite admire you, in fact. You are the fiercest of hunters. And the more fierce the creature, the more value the trophy has."

Aela spoke up at this point, her voice dripping with malice.

"Where is Skjor?"

Skinner paused, appearing to consider her question carefully.

"Skee-or? I don't believe I know that name. All of your Nord names sound so similar to me though."

Shmork was out of patience.

"Where is he?!" he roared.

Skinner motioned to one of his warriors, and they retreated a few steps and crouched behind the dais.

"Well, you're no fun. You and your friend have that in common."

The soldier heaved something across the dais, and the corpse, for it was a corpse, landed in front of Skinner's feet.

"Or had it in common, rather. A pity. He wouldn't even transform for me, at the end."

Shmork stared at the still form in front of him. It couldn't be. The stoic old man who had lectured him so many times, who had taught him much about being a warrior, could not be the one laying in front of him. This bloody and broken form could not be the same body of strength and endurance that Shmork had followed in marches across the tundra. It couldn't be, he wouldn't allow it to be. And yet the face of his mentor stared back at him, eyes glazed with lifelessness. Dropping his weapon and shield, Shmork slumped to the floor, his face hidden in shadow.

"You bastards!" Aela yelled from behind him, tears rimming her eyes.

"Humph. This is how the mighty Companions react to losing one of their Shield-Siblings? Despair and tears? Disgusting. He was hardly worth crying over. A pompous waste of warrior flesh. He barely put up a f—"

"Shut your mouth!" Shmork suddenly roared. They were going to die. They all had to die.

Behind his helm Skinner's eyebrow rose. Who was this lowly Orc to talk to him that way? Shmork mumbled something else under his breath.

"Well don't quiet down now Orc. What have you to say?" Skinner taunted.

Shmork leaned forward, putting his hands on the ground in front of him, and lifting himself into a crouch.

I'll kill them.

His muscles bunched and knotted, unseen beneath his armor, and his gloved hands gripped the stone in front of him.

I'll rip them to pieces!

He raised his eyes to meet Skinner's.

Skinner paused for a moment. He stared into the yellow eyes of a beast.

"I'll kill you!" Shmork roared.

"Rid us of these beasts!" he yelled at his men, contempt in his voice. The soldiers began to move forward, and then Shmork raised his head to the ceiling in a mighty roar.

His limbs began to extend, and his back arched, hunching his form slightly. Black claws pierced the tips of his gauntlets. His helm fell to the floor and the warriors witnessed his mouth and nose stretching into a muzzle, his Orcish fangs lengthening and being joined by other sharp canines. Shmork ripped his finely crafted armor, now stained with blood from his battles in the fort, away from his body, tearing the leather straps that held it in place. His greaves and boots exploded off of his legs as they transformed, his feet elongating and forming into great clawed paws. The clothes under his armor tore at the seams and exposed his green hide quickly being covered in thick black fur. By the time the first warrior reached him, Shmork's transformation was complete.

He reached out and grasped the warriors neck in his giant yet nimble forepaws. His claws sank into the woman's flesh, causing blood to trickle down her neck and chest. She made a small choked noise before he flung her aside. Her body crashed into the far wall, her neck broken, leaving a red stain as she slid down the stone.

The feeling of power and bloodlust were strong, stronger than ever he had felt them before, but something was different about his transformation this time. His brief snatches of memory from his first transformation were blurry and incoherent, but now his mind was clear. His sense were sharp, his every thought, conscious and instinctual, focused on a singular motive, a single consideration that filled his awareness.

KILL!

Shmork leapt forward, crashing into another one of the warriors. He rolled across the room, tearing into the flesh of the man's head and neck with his great fangs. Blood flew from their melee in bright red ribbons, splattering the floor and walls. The man was dead before their momentum stopped, but Shmork continued to smash his hands into the bloody pulp that his opponent's torso was quickly transforming into.

He was pulled out of his attack by the sting of a silver sword cutting into his shoulder. Swinging his arm around, Shmork swatted away the third Silver Hand, sending the man sliding across the floor. As the fourth warrior approached, Shmork formed his left hand into a blade, and stabbed his claws into the man's stomach. As the warrior skewered on Shmork's paw coughed up blood, Shmork roared his victory into his face, and then thrust his head forward, biting the man's bottom jaw clean off. His tongue wriggled from his gaping skull, like an exposed worm trying to return to the soil, accompanied by the wet gargling sound of his final terrified breath.

Aela was stunned for the first few moments of the newly transformed Shmork's rampage, but she regained her composure quickly. The warrior Shmork had sent sliding across the floor was rising, readying his bow to strike from a distance. Aela charged the man with her sword held high, yelling a battle cry.

Skinner, deciding the woman would make an easier first kill than the rampaging beast, pulled his great axe from his back and ran to meet her.

Losing himself momentarily, Shmork slammed his still skewered victim to the ground, and began to feast on his flesh, ripping effortlessly through his leather armor with his massive fangs, and cracking bones easily in his powerful jaws.

As Aela drew near the soldier, he raised his bow and fired a single arrow, drawing another loud growl from Shmork. Before he could draw another arrow, Aela stood above him and brought her sword down on his skull, splitting it in two like a ripe melon. As the archer fell before her, Skinner's axe came whistling in at her left side.

Aela caught the blow on her shield, but the smarmy Imperial was as strong as he was sarcastic. His axe forced her shield against her body and sent her rolling across the floor. When she righted herself she found the metal severely dented, and the wooden planks that backed it were splintered. It could only survive one more blow like that.

Skinner pursued his prey as she rolled, and his axe was already in a high downward swing when Aela came to a stop. She rolled again to avoid the attack, the blade slamming into the stone floor with a loud clang. To her surprise it suffered no damage, instead putting a sizable hole into the floor.

Aela swung her sword up to meet Skinner's exposed back, thinking his axe far too heavy to defend himself. The warrior instead relied on his armor to take the attack, and deflected the sword with his left gauntlet, flowing with the momentum to pull it back and then drive his metal fist into Aela's cheekbone. She lost her ragged shield in the fall.

Shmork ripped the arrow that had struck him out of his chest, snapping it in his grip and tossing it away. He looked up to find the source of this stinging pain and saw Aela being struck across the room. With another savage roar he loped toward the conflict on all four feet.

Skinner raised his axe for another downward strike, and Aela scrambled backward in fear. Her left eye was swelling up, and she knew sprawled on the ground she was an easy target for the blade of her enemy's axe. Skinner let loose a triumphant laugh as he pulled his axe down over his head.

It stopped in midair.

In the momentum of his swing, Skinner's hands slipped right off of the handle of his weapon. He turned in shock to see the werewolf Shmork standing over him, holding his giant axe easily in one furry hand.

With the back of his open left paw, Shmork smote the werewolf hunter across the face of his helm. Skinner rolled back with the blow, reducing the force he took from it, but not enough to stop it from pitching him ten feet away. As Skinner rolled away, Shmork tossed the giant axe aside like a twig, its metal mass clanging loudly against the wall and floor. Shmork growled his victory and scuttled after his prey, leaving Aela to slowly recover from her prone position on the floor.

As his slide across the ground ended, Skinner looked up and focused on where his weapon had landed, He would need the blade to handle the enraged beast that was upon him. Seeing it laying at the foot of the wall beyond Shmork, he crouched low and faced the charging werewolf.

Shmork was almost upon Skinner now, focusing solely upon the beating heart of his prey, the taste of blood on his tongue, the smell of fear and flesh suffusing the air. The great beast lunged forward, claws extended on outreaching arms, maw gaping, full of red stained fangs like white daggers. As he closed his arms to pin his prey, Shmork saw the steel helmed head duck, and Skinner roll beneath his outstretched body. Cursing mentally and snarling in frustration, Shmork twisted and landed on his shoulder, rolling out the pounce and alighting on all fours. He franticly raised his yellow eyes to search for his agile victim.

Skinner had come out of his roll into a full sprint, losing his helm in the motion, and leapt over Aela, who had only made it to her hands and knees, but was quickly regaining her composure. Reaching the wall, he lifted his axe across his chest, and hearing the slapping of paws and clacking of claws upon stone behind him, swung around. He was just in time to stop Shmork's paw from tearing his heart out.

The werewolf's attack pressed Skinner against the stone wall, pinning him beneath his axe, where Shmork held him. In his fury and blood-driven joy, Shmork once again let out a howling roar toward the celling.

Aela watched as she finally came to her feet, in awe of her companion's strength. He had only just recovered from his first transformation the previous night, and yet he seemed to already be in control of the beast form.

If he had been in full control, however, he might have noticed the werewolf hunter drawing the hunting knife from his belt while Shmork roared his victory.

Skinner quickly jabbed the knife into Shmork's side, aiming for his vulnerable kidney. Where his soldiers were overwhelmed and helpless before the werewolf's strength, Skinner was fully in his element. He had slain dozens of the beasts, those who were wild and those who could strategize as well as any sentient being. He wasn't about to be slain by this whelp.

Shmork howled in pain as the knife struck true, and his grip lessened as if the blade had sucked the strength from his limbs. Skinner released the knife, leaving it stuck in Shmork's belly, and pushed the beast away from him with his axe. Shmork stumbled backward, groping for the piercing, icy pain in his hide. He grasped the blade's handle and flung it from him.

Skinner pressed forward, grinning fiercely, and swung his axe in an arc from right shoulder to hip. The blow glanced across Shmork's retreating form, cutting a thin line in his pectoral fur and hide, drawing another whimpering growl from the werewolf. Catching a glimpse of movement to his right, Skinner quickly raised the axe and deflected an arrow from Aela, who had swiftly drawn her bow during the other combatants' grappling.

Taking a step toward her, Skinner jabbed the end of his axe handle forward and caught Aela in her forward-facing right leg. Gasping in pain, she again fell to the floor, sinking heavily on her right knee, and dropping her bow to catch herself. Skinner, amazed at the resiliency of his two opponents, began to chuckle.

"This has been thoroughly entertaining my friends, but I'm afraid this game is over. Fret not, I'll be sure to send your mangled corpses back to your pack!"

The great warrior raised his axe above his head and brought the massive blade down on Aela. The blade cut only a fraction of an inch into the skin on her shoulder, before halting completely. Skinner's eyes widened in shock and frustration. The woman's arms had transformed in a split second, and now covered in thick fur, were pinning his hands to the long handle of his axe!

Aela looked up from her crouched position into the angry man's eyes, a pleased expression on her face.

"I would offer you the same, but I'm afraid there won't be much of a corpse left to send."

As she spoke the last few words, Skinner again heard the sound of the heavy paws on stone, and looked to his left to see the shaggy, dark form leaping toward him. His eyes widened even further, his expression of disbelief turning to one of absolute outrage.

"Damn you to Oblivion!" he shouted with impotent frenzy, the final word muffled slightly as Shmork's jaws closed around his head.