Hello again, I took my time with this one so hopefully I don't find a bunch of errors I missed after I publish it HA! Anyway hope you enjoy and feel free to leave any reviews.

The deer was just a little too far away to fire a straight shot. The Khajiit would have to take aim just above the deer's shoulder or the arrow would surely miss. He nocked an arrow onto the the string of his simple wooden long bow. He slowly drew the string back, only stopping when he reached his cheek. He took aim at deer's shoulder and then slowly begin to raise his bow until he figured he had compensated for the distance. He was about to loose his arrow when a gust of wind blowing East rushed through the trees. Damn.

He would have to compensate for the wind or move in closer, but the Khajiit didn't want to scare away the game he had been tracking since sunrise. Midday now, the sun beat down on him as he slowly turned his bow to the left. The wind would carry it to the right. The Khajiit took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and got ready to fire. He heard the snap of a bowstring. The deer seemed to lift of the ground when the arrow struck behind his shoulder. A perfect shot. The deer didn't take a step before it dropped. He looked to his left to the sound of the bow. There was Malthor, a huge grin on his face.

Amidst a roar of laughter, Malthor said, "Too slow, Whisk!"

Whisk. He had always assumed it was short for Whiskers or some house cat name like it. He didn't blame his parents though, after all they knew nothing of the traditions of Khajiits or how cubs were named. They were just simple Nords living in The West Weald of Cyrodil, just North of the border of Valenwood and Elsweyr. Strangely enough, they never had any contact with the Khajiits and very little with the Wood Elves unless they traveled to their provinces, which didn't happen often.

Whisk hadn't seen his adopted father, Malthor, sneak up on him. The forests this far North were thick and Malthor was extremely quiet for his size. Not attempting to be quiet now, the tall Nord trudged through the woods towards Whisk.

"I had him, father. You should've let me make the kill." Whisk said annoyed with how cheery the Nord was.

"If I hadn't shot him, we'd be dead of starvation by now." Malthor replied, the grin still plastered across his face. "You're a great shot, Whisk, but you need to be quicker about these things. Had that been a bandit you'd be dead by now."

"I was taking my time. Isn't that point of hunting? Enjoying the outdoors, the sunlight warming your fur, and the breeze cooling it simultaneously. The leaves rustling as birds land and take flight."

"Oh so you're a poet now are you? I only jest, son. Come, we need to get this deer to camp and quartered before nightfall." Malthor headed for the deer, but Whisk stayed behind, closing his eyes and feeling the first cool breeze of Autumn. It was days like these that made him grateful for all his parents had done for him. Malthor had never told him what happened to his real parents, he would always go quiet when he asked. Whisk didn't bother to ask anymore, they were his parents now, and if what happened to his Khajiit parents was enough to quiet the huge Nord, he might not want to know. All he knew was that he blessed by the Divines to have made his way into the Nords' lives.

"Whisk! Quit your lollygagging, lets get to it." Malthor yelled from the corpse of the deer.

Whisk snapped out of his thoughts and pushed his way through the brush to help his father.

The night was clear and bright. The moons, Masser and Secunda cascading the forest with light. A torch would be near useless on a night like this. The fire was even dimmed by the giants. It was quiet, the fauna seemed to vanish from the forest. They were there though, Whisk could feel their eyes. They had no tents on this night, there was no need. The weather was clear and both hunters would prefer to watch the sky and dream of what was beyond the constraints of Nirn. Malthor was kneeling next to the fire, a grip on the handle of a pan over the fire, the other holding a dagger he was using to flip the meat that cooked in it. The smell was intoxicating. Malthor grabbed a small wooden bowl of salt and added a pinch to the already seasoned meat.

"How much longer?" Whisk asked.

"Oh, I'd say a couple more minutes. Mouth watering, eh?" replied the Nord.

"Aye, but I meant how much longer to Skyrim?"

"Hmm, let's see. I think we're a day North of Bruma. I'd say a day and a half, maybe two."

"Where will we go once we cross the border?"

"I haven't given it much thought. It'll take us maybe a week to get to Whiterun, but if I remember correctly Riverwood is about halfway. We could stop there, rest at the inn, and then head to Whiterun. I want to get our supplies from Belathor, I hear he's real fair on his prices."

"Sounds good to me."

"Ah, it's done. Prepare for the best deer of your life, Whisk." Malthor stabbed the meat and put it onto the Khajiit's plate.

"The backstrap was always my favorite part." Whisk was grinning, ready to dig in.

They continued to talk over supper. Whisk loved to hear Malthor's stories even though he was a full grown Khajiit of twenty years. He told him the story of Alduin, the World-Eater and how the Dragonborn defeated him. Whisk was only five years old when the Dragonborn had defeated the black dragon, so he wasn't old enough to understand what was happening. He told stories of Nord heroes all throughout history. But whenever Whisk asked about The Great War and the Aldmeri Dominion, his stories took a dark turn. Malthor hated the Dominion with a passion, paricularly the Thalmor representives. He would grow angrier the longer he went on with the story. Malthor told Whisk how the Thalmor had claimed they had shut the Gates of Oblivion during the Crisis, when in actuality, it had been the Hero of Kvatch and Martin Septim.

"Those were the days when Emperors would refuse to bow to foreign rulers no matter the cost. When they would stand defiantly with their men, even in the face of Daedric lords. Now we have a coward who hides behind his walls like a whipped dog." Malthor trailed off. "That's enough for tonight, lad. Let's get some sleep, we've got a long way to go tomorrow."

Whisk laid down in his bedroll. He put his arms behind his head and gazed at the night sky. He wondered what it would be like to be a hero like the ones in his fathers stories. He imagined himself in bright, shining armor charging enemy lines on an armored horse, thousands of men at his back. The thought gave him a kind of tingling feeling all over. He smiled and closed his eyes and drifted off.

That night Whisk dreamed of battle. It wasn't the glorious battlefield he had imagined himself on. He was in a dark forest somewhere, and all around men were fighting, screaming, and dying. In his dream there were dead elves at his feet, dressed in black robes and golden armor. He looked at his claws, they dripped with blood. Dead men fell on top of dead men, forcing the warriors to climb the corpses while they fought. It was a massacre.

Whisk jerked up in his bedrolls in a panic. He looked around their camp, breathing heavily. Only a dream. It was only a dream.

If you read this far THANKS! This chapters a little short. I had planned on writing a longer one but it got too long so I split it. Will try to upload as often as I can.