…. Body morphs into the ebony demon….

….Claws extend…

….The face of a Vampire Lord with horns as nefarious as Alduin's…

…The Wings are last and they rip from my back in their full-extended form….

….Hunger

….My eyes can see every heart beat….

….I can hear their blood flow….

….I Sense their fear….

When the metamorphosis is complete, I remain where I am for a moment, hovering with undeniable power emanating from my body. Eyes were on me from both allies and enemies…. Fear… confusion… anger… those are the emotions I can sense from them. When foolishness finally called for the signal to attack, I let my voice pierce the air as arrows come flying my way. Silver will never harm me… nor will a normal blade. They pass me as if I am a ghost; hard to hit something that is made out of mist and bats; hard to hit something if they can't see me until it's too late. I appear in front of them... the fresh soldiers who didn't join the previous stampede. Before they can even react, from my hands I release a powerful force that eliminates a portion of them, and those that didn't get caught in the destruction fight back with their bows, but their arrows merely stop in flight with a gesture of my hand. I sense more fear… fear turning to dread. I know they realize their death. I hear their heart beating faster as they see their own arrows turn against them with a push of my hand. Each arrow that was meant for me took their target efficiently as they strike between the armor, finding the weakness in every soldier and causing fatal and excruciating pain. The rest of them are easily dislodged with a barrage of destruction spells that I omit from my hands. The spheres of fire and darkness causing them to either burn or fold from the force they hold. I let out a wailing scream at the remaining Silver-Hand; a gesture to announce the atrocity I will inflict upon them.

…I can hear their heart beating…

…Their Fear is a pungent scent… an aroma that feeds my incentive…

…Their blood exuding the feeling of their thoughts of wanting to stay alive…

My Hunger can't be sated…

I extend my hands toward the fleeing men and two stop on their tracks due to the mystic binds that I have poisoned their mobility with. They fight with confusion, unable to grasp the idea that their movements are no longer their own, it's mine. With a thought, I pull them to me as I remain hovering; my senses continue to pin point their pulse… their fear… their blood. Within the confines of their helmet, their eyes implore for their life… their words are no longer mine to hear… their mouths moving without any sort of sound…

…My Hunger can't be sated…

…Blood…

…Fear…

MY HUNGER….

I release one and leave him to a most likely crippling landing. Not long after, I plunge my open jaws on my prey, fangs in lead and despite her armor, I pierce my the razor sharp fangs on the side of her neck letting blood flow profusely as I drink. She fights as they always do. For a few moments they struggle and try to scream through the pain… they push, claw, thrash about fervently as they try to alleviate some of the pain they feel… but eventually they slow down. Every gulp… they slow down dramatically and soon after that, their eyes go blank and their fighting stops. They become almost lifeless and unable to even hold their own weight. I keep drinking to the point where they are barely alive… and that's when I know this one isn't enough to subdue my 'need'. Dropping the bloody carcass, I turn to the distance to get a glimpse of the others taking their share on decimating the Silver-Hand. They fight well now that the tides have turned, though it is still apparent that the battle has taken their toll and they are sloppy in action, at the very best they are desperate.

Hunger. HUNGER

The last remainder of the Silver-Hand still attracts my need. Their formation no longer adequate for their earlier tactic, but without proper attention, they can still cause enough harm with their silver arrows. With that thought, my body disperses into mist and bats. The effort of travelling next to the Silver-Hand who are shooting down my allies is effortless and unseen until it's too late. My claws pierces one in his throat and effortlessly hurl him out of the way so that I may dig my fangs into another nord who had a good aim. The moment I made contact with her neck, her blood rushed into my willing mouth and I drink with vehemence. She screams… she pushes… but her fight didn't last long. Her allies attempt to thwart my feast as they strike me with their arrows. Annoying pinches are all I felt and I turn to them with mouth agape, blood spilling and fangs in full show, some shoot at me while others take a few steps backwards. As arrows hit my body, I snarl at them in agitation. Extending my hand out, I control one of the archer's body with mysticism and hurl him to the others, causing them to drop their weapons and fall clumsily on the ground in pain. Not caring much for their next actions, I turn my attention to the bleeding nord in my grasp; she quivers in both pain and fear, though I would surmise that the excruciating pain of an open wound has taken over the majority of her senses. Though she won't suffer any longer…

…HUNGER….

… I plunge my fangs into her once again and feast upon what I have started and from there I don't stop. I keep drinking; I keep sucking the life out of her… experiencing every ounce of joy from this replenishment; this act proliferates my lack of inhibition… it curbs my hunger even if momentarily… I feel feral… Unable…

… The carcass is out of my hands…

…I turn towards the rest…

…Fear….

…Fear…

My wings spans out exuberantly behind me as I let out a shout into the pouring sky letting the last of the Silver-Hand know that death will be by their side soon. They take that as a sign and run as fast as they can. Some get past the two Lycans and Kharjo's wrath, but most of them don't. Those that do… their beating heart remains like a prominent hymn to my ears. I won't let them get away… not for what they have attempted… Not for what they will try in the future. That and I still have a hunger to settle. A hunger that has no bounds, it would seem….

I let out another shout before charging towards the remaining cattle…

…HUNGER…

Drunken Huntsman

The battle was a blur. The more blood I drink, the less I keep a hold of my 'humanity'. Everything that leads to me here in Whiterun's Drunken Huntsman is obscure… piecing it together causes a headache that I don't need right now. Taking my mug, I take another sip of my mead.

"My friend," I look over towards Kharjo who just placed his own mug down. "I have told you more than enough times about the events of the mission. Delving into it will not change anything."

"What an amusing thing to say. Do you honestly believe that I want to change something?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"Perhaps not, Kharjo," I took another gulp. "The battle was won. I have honored the request from the Nightingales and the Companions. The night ends with us drinking our share."

"Yes, indeed." Kharjo takes a glance at his helmet that still has bloodstains from our previous exploits. Licking his gloved hand, he rubs the spot with the blood until it eventually comes off.

"Will you return to Sky Haven Temple soon?" I ask.

"Yes. Esbern would certainly like to hear what kind of things the Dragonborn has been up to, and why the Dragonborn would take one of the more 'esteemed' member of the Blades with him."

Kharjo chuckles after that statement and I reciprocate with an audible 'hmm'. I was amused by his sarcasm, though without my helmet on my face, I make very little effort to show my amusement. With that said, I finish my mead and grab the Masque of Clavicus Vile and place it upon my head.

"Safe travels, Kharjo."

"I assume that you won't be visiting the Companions to receive the gratitude they owe you?"

"I shed a gift they bestowed upon me long ago. My kind is not welcome in their home."

"I see."

Wolves give Bats no such joy. An archaic rivalry between two creatures of the night seems to perpetuate in Skyrim. With that thought, I make my way towards the door.

"When you retrieved my mother's keepsake for me, you did so with great ease and discretion, did you not?"

I stopped on my tracks hearing Kharjo's words. Strange thing for him to bring up such an event in our past. Then again, I gained his loyalty for me through the favor of taking the Moon Amulet back from thieves… it means a lot to him, so I suppose it's only right.

"Yes."

"You were a different person back then. You had a lot of motive in everything you did."

"Riddles, Kharjo. I have no joy in deciphering riddles."

"If it's a trap, you used to be far more considerate of every factor. You would use every back door possible instead of barging in."

"Judas foiled our sneak attempt, not I."

"True, but there are many other ways to attempt this mission rather than sneak towards the front door of our enemies. It's almost like you wanted them to see you eventually."

"If you want me to kidnap Aela and give her back to the Stendars so we can do it your way, I would."

"No. That is not what I meant."

"No, it is not. I do things for a reason, Kharjo, if I don't, then why are you still loyal to me?"

Kharjo stares at me for a few moments before taking a huge swig of his mead. Having his fill, he grabs his helmet and gets off his chair and starts making his way towards the door.

"Because what you did for me, and many times after that was for a reason. You gave me a reason to believe you, so I will follow. I won't judge you now because you haven't done me wrong, and for that I am loyal," He walks pass me, putting on his helmet and keeping his back turned as he speaks. "But there are plenty of others who don't feel the same way. They see the drastic change and they don't like it."

When was the last time I truly cared about what people think about me? There are plenty of rumors and talks about me that I have become apathetic to them. Trifle things are what they talk about considering I was the one who banished Alduin. But when destruction is abated, I seem to be the center of gossips in regards to what I do now. I watch as Kharjo exits, closing the door behind him, leaving me with the rest of the inebriated Nords and their obnoxious talk of adventure or of a certain guard who took an arrow to the knee. I remember when I was very appreciative every time I'd make it to Whiterun, now it seems that I just care more about their mead than the actual city itself. With that said, I have had my fill… it's time for me to go about my business. There are some people I need to talk to.

The Lover Stone

I slowly slide off the Masque of Clavicus Vile letting the cool air hit my face. While the daedric artifact that adorns my face gives me clear vision, nothing is like having to set my own eyes upon the gifts I have given as a tribute. They serenade the ground adding more vibrancy in the almost dull setting of the Lover Stone. Soul gems grand and great, jewelry, enchanted blades, dragon bones… a myriad of things that I have earned, scavenged, and bought are scattered in no decorating pattern to them whatsoever, but they do their job as décor well enough. The torch I have set on one of the pillar has burned out and it takes a quick breath of flame to relight the tribute. The insignia of the lover stone is now even more prominent as I like it to be. Taking a deep breath, I let out a bellow of power towards the sky causing the surroundings to distort for a moment with the force I released. The skies are bright from all the stars but the black clouds cover them. Shortly after, the sound of thunder and rain takes over and soon the storm I have summoned is now drenching the area with its power. While keeping my eyes on the carved form of the woman within this celestial stone, I kneel down, placing the Masque beside me.

"Lover," I say. "So much blood. So much screaming… how can I be forgiven when the days of retribution are washed away with the blood of those I have slain?"

As always there is no answer. The shimmering of the trinkets, the crackling of fire getting hit by water, the waterfalls around me, and of course the storm is the only response I get….

The life of this Dragonborn is only through solitude and the will to do what is deemed justified at the moment….

The End. For Now.