AN: I'm starting a new Skyrim game for the sake of this story, and I had forgotten about how fun it is. :P
Oh, and I've decided to modify the Khajiit religion a bit to better suit the story. I'm going to be mashing together the Nords' beliefs with the Khajiits' for Silverclaw's system. It will be explained why later on in the story.
And please review! I love reading them! (maybe a bit too much ^w^)
Silverclaw
He felt a dull pounding in his head as he cracked open his eyes. All he currently saw was the grey-orange light of the morn in the sky. His ears were ringing, as if an explosive had just gone off (technically, during the time that Skyrim is based on, gunpowder did exist and sometimes went off on accident). He made a noise that resembled a guttural meow.
He suddenly became aware of his body, and the tingling heat sensation that seemed to engulf all of his exposed fur. Instincts pushing adrenaline into his blood, causing him to fully wake up, he sprung to his feet. It was slightly difficult with the heavy iron armor on his body. Fire was all around him. Ashes littered the ground and charred corpses were strewn about, a lot in positions that caused Silverclaw's stomach to churn.
There was one who had been begging for mercy, by the position of their body. Some had somewhat minor burn injuries, others had some of their flesh seared, and the remaining percentage were the unlucky ones. They had been the ones who had been caught in the hellfire, who had taken the full brunt. The young Khajiit bared his teeth in disgust and anger.
What beast could do such a thing and feel no remorse?
He felt no real sympathy for the Imperials who had died, only for the civilians. He walked forward, pausing at a small corpse that was partially molten. A child. It was in the fetal position, it's knees up to its chest. His nostrils flared. He was no longer merely angry – he was livid. He vowed then and there that he would hunt this dragon down, and slaughter it in the most creatively painful way possible.
His prior mentor would not approve of his goal, but would approve, however, of his channeling of his anger. He would sharpen it, and wield it as a weapon. As a means to end the inhumane abhorrence that was the dragon.
He put that anger away for now, as it was of no use to him now. He suddenly became aware of several burn marks on his iron armor. There was a blackened circle on his right breastplate where the metal was noticeably disfigured. There was another on his shoulder pad, along with left shin, lower back, and the helmet he had put on. "Well, I made the right decision putting this on," he grunted.
Now that he was technically out of danger, the adrenaline wore off. All the soreness and thumping came back to him in a swift blow, causing him to fall to his knees. He stayed like that for a while, controlling his breathing and using techniques taught to him by his two mentors to diminish the pain.
'Nullifying pain is much like a battlefield,' his first mentor had said, 'You have to focus and destroy the source.'
The Khajiit youth did his best to either push the pain away or to terminate it all together. He was partially successful, as he managed to stave off most of the burning sensation, as it mostly came from bruises and slight singes that were nothing he had to truly worry about. There was pain that came from a large cut on his bicep, but it was small enough that he had learned to ignore it. Thankfully, it was on his left, so he could fight relatively well.
He wondered where the Nord and Breton were. Their scents weren't here. Everybody who had been charred had still held on to their odor in life, albeit fainter. He could smell everyone in the small outpost, excluding his two acquaintances.
They either died somewhere out of his nose's range or escaped. The young Khajiit apprentice guessed the latter, since they didn't seem to be the type people that would die easily. Then again, this dragon could massacre anything, if it wished to do so.
He suddenly longed to be light again, so he could run freely and not feel the heavy iron weighing him down. He was a more of an 'ants-in-my-pants' sort of Khajiit, which caused him to be a highly lethal warrior if equipped with the right armor and armaments. He could usually slaughter five men in under a minute because of his made-up battle style. His peers took to calling it the 'Dance of Death' and rightfully so.
His ears swiveled to pick up footsteps from behind him. Despite the armor weighing him down, he turned around quickly to find an Imperial soldier charging at him with an axe held high. The Imperial swung the axe down to hit Silverclaw, but he only managed to hit the air, as the young Khajiit had spun out of the impact area.
"Any slower, and then the slugs would be a fair match for you!" taunted Silverclaw, unsheathing his battle-axe. "You brought the dragon here! You and the other Stormcloak traitors!" roared the soldier, swinging at Silverclaw. The grey-pelted apprentice leapt backwards, crouching on the charred earth. "First of all," grunted the apprentice, standing up, "I am no Stormcloak. Second, I've no idea what brought that accursed thing here, but I wish it had gotten you while it was at it."
This enraged the Imperial, causing him to chain multiple swings, kicks, and headbutts. All in vain, as Silverclaw easily dodged all of them. "You Khajiit scum!" roared the Imperial, starting to become exhausted from all the taunting.
"I am no scum," spat Silverclaw walking up to the soldier arrogantly. "I am, however, your killer," growled the Khajiit, angry with the pitiful man. He brought his hand to the soldier's chin and held his head up. "You were wrong to enlist… boy," hissed Silverclaw, with a cold fire burning in his eyes.
The soldier's eyes lost their spark of fury, and were starting to glaze over with fear. Silverclaw unsheathed his claws, two of them puncturing the Imperial's skull and reaching his eyes.
He gasped in horror, blood pooling in his mouth. He gurgled with bubbles of red coming out of his jaws, then fell on the ground, limp. The crimson liquid started pooling around the body. The soldier's final resting position was him gripping his neck in vain.
"Never challenge a Khajiit," Silverclaw spat on the man's corpse, kicking ashes and dirt over it.
0-0-0
It was around midnight now, and Silverclaw had set up camp in one of the relatively intact houses. He despised to be around all the charred corpses of the innocent, but he had no option. He had buried all of the civilian bodies, and made a little ceremony for the ones that had been burnt alive, since dying by fire is one of the most unholy ways to die in Khajiit beliefs, and the ones who do require a ceremony to have the impurity cleansed.
All the others had died of the beast's giant teeth and collateral damage.
Silverclaw looked over the young child's corpse, seeing if there was any sort of valuables that the young human would like in the afterlife. He found none, and decided to bury the child with a wooden sword he had found. "May you defend yourself like a true warrior," breathed Silverclaw as he covered the body in ashen soot.
The high death count of the village lingered in the air, like fog after a heavy rain. Silverclaw could've sworn he still felt the presence of some of the villagers, as if they had never died but merely taken a short nap, then woke up to continue life as usual.
Silverclaw huddled close to the large fire he had created out of the broken remains of the homes. He would sleep, and then the morning… he would leave.
