"I need to go to the Skyforge."
"I told you to go away last time, Luken. You are a menace to everyone around you. The Companions will not hesitate to hunt you down; Kodlak was right, someone would lose control of the gift, sooner or later."
"You don't understand... "
"Yes, I don't. I don't understand why you stopped turning. I don't understand how you turned into a coward overnight. You took the sword, and instead of using it to kill anything that stands into honor's way, you left it there to rot and so it did. You let the gift rot until it felt like it was time to take over. And even though Kodlak refused to use it too, at least he knew how to control the bloodlust. You didn't."
Luken went silent and walked towards the stairs, pushing Aela lightly. The woman then turned her head to him, drawing her dagger in the split of a second, putting it uncomfortably close to Luken's neck.
"The Skyforge is closed."
The werewolf turned back. He knew the hate Aela felt for him. Not only for the day Earlund died, but through the whole time spent with her. He knew that if he only had stopped following Kodlak's advice when Aela invited Luken for her little campaign no the Silver Hand and he refused, she would not be pointing a dagger towards him. He knew that if he only had honored Kodlak's last wish, she would not be speaking so angrily. And he knew that if he had been a better leader, she would not be THAT ready to kill him. But she was. And Luken's body, following it's basic instincts, simply turned. Luken had turned, right next to Aela.
The young Thalmor officer rode on horseback towards Whiterun, while a whole company of soldiers followed tiringly behind. He could hear the roars of the werewolf; in fact, he could hear them even before the confirmation was given. They had the enemy locked inside Whiterun, even without the Jarl's permission.
Two Thalmor soldiers casted an Alteration spell similar to Stoneflesh on the door. The only guard that still held his post was laying there, dead as the night, his body charred up like if a dragon had swallowed him and then spit the guard out.
"I am going in. Gondow, Famenk, you're coming with me."
"As you wish, sire."
The three Thalmor officers walked through the ruins of Whiterun. The roars had stopped as soon as the elves walked inside the walls. One of them, a wood elf, could still sniff the indistinguishable wet dog smell that all werewolves had on them. He led the group, with Zelphor in the middle, and the soldier in a heavy moonstone plate armor walking behind them.
Dead bodies littered the streets. Those who did not die in the last massacre, surely did on this one. Famenk led the group towards the doors of Dragonsreach, the castle that the Jarl of Whiterun lived in.
"This is it. The smell stops he-"
As soon as he was done talking, a shadow appeared out of nowhere and grabbed him, throwing the elf outside of the walls. Zelphor and Gondow unsheathed their swords. A bloody battle was to come. Silently behind them, someone moved. It was not the werewolf; it was something far worse.