So I found myself a BETA!
A shoutout of thanks to her for helping me with my grammar from now on.
Hopefully any grammar mistakes I've had a tendency to make so far won't be a problem anymore.

That said, I really feel the story is beginning to take a turn for the better now.
Hopefully it'll become a lot more interesting and more ¨action filled¨ from here on.

My next chapter is already completed and I'll release that one in two weeks from now, on friday as well.
Hopefully I'll have the next one after that done by that time.

Don't be afraid to tell me what you think about this chapter.
Enjoy!

Old Warrior

"Good morning, Skjor." Anoriath waved as he caught sight of Skjor walking down the stairs to the marketplace.

The Companions had always been held in high regard amongst the citizens of Whiterun. Their history was older than the city itself, after all. Not greeting them on sight was considered to be disrespectful and beyond rude. Some elders even believed neglecting to greet them brought bad luck.

"Heading out to hunt?" Anorath asked as Skjor gave a nod, in acknowledge to his greeting.

"Something like that." Skjor continued walking across the marketplace, determined discipline in his steps.

Anorath hastily grabbed his bow and quiver from his stand and slung them over his shoulder before hurrying after Skjor. As he tried to keep up with the man, it became clear to Anorath that Skjor had once been a soldier… maybe even a bit too serious of a soldier.

"I'll join you," Anorath wheezed between hurried breaths as he caught up to Skjor. "My stand is almost empty and you Companions sure eat a lot… And I'm expecting Tilma today."

"Training will do that," Skjor stated, keeping his eyes forward without slowing in his steps. "But I'm afraid what I'm hunting is above you."

"Oh, let me guess… predators?" Anorath said, his voice tinged with sarcasm, as they approached the city gate.

"Prey…" Skjor said coldly as he hailed the guard, signaling for him to open the gate.

Stunned by Skjors answer Anorath stopped in his tracks as he watched Skjor leave through the city gate, a sudden feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. He'd always highly respected the Companions, Skjor more than most, but somehow his conversations with Skjor always ended with a chill down his spine.

"Ysmir hold me!"

As one of my legs got caught in the leg of my pants, I toppled over the chair holding the rest of my clothes. Ysolda laughed from our bed at the ridiculous sight of her half-naked husband sprawled across the old wooden floor, defeated by his own inability to dress.

"Oh mighty Companion…" She said with sarcasm and smile as she rose, wearing nothing but one of the many fur blankets decorating our bed. "It's a good thing people don't send contracts on trousers, or your reputation might… ¨trip!¨" Grinning at her own joke..

"Ha... ha…" I got up from the floor and pulled up my pants and fastened my belt around my waist, as Ysolda held out my tunic.

"Shouldn't you get dressed as well?" I asked kindly as I stood up, taking my tunic from her.

"I'm not in a rush… The Khajiits will be here all day," she stated, a soft smile on her lips as she tucked strands of fiery red hair, still tousled from earlier, over her left ear. "You, on the other hand, should get going. It's already light outside." She gestured towards the window.

"Crap!" I hastily pulled the tunic over my head.

"Well, don't blame me for being late," She said with a tease in her eyes. "I told you to leave half an hour ago."

"Yeah, it was worth it," I said, a confident smirk on my lips as I turned and walked to the kitchen to don my boots.

"Wait." Ysolda interrupted quietly, as I had donned my boots and reached for the old wooden door handle. She tiptoed towards me on the cold floor, holding the fur blanket tight around her shoulders. "You forgot something."

Arching my eyebrows in confusion, I tried to figure out what I possibly could have forgotten. She leaned towards me on her toes and gave me a quick peck with her lips against my left cheek.

"There," she said with a soft smile, "Now you have everything."

I couldn't help but smile as I felt a slight blush spread across my face. "Thank you?" I looked down into her eyes with warmth as she leaned against my chest, her amber eyes so innocently gazing into mine.

"You return safe now," she said as she skipped back toward the bedroom, sound of bare feet against wooden planks as she went.

"By Ysgramor, I'm going out with Skjor! And Aela!" I shouted after her as she rounded the corner. "What could possibly go wrong?"

The morning sun was just above the horizon as it bathed the land in its golden glow. There was a chill in the air as Skjor walked along the road south of Whiterun. With no trees covering the tundra, the autumn winds blew harshly across the fields of Whiterun, drawing waves in the tall brown and yellow grass as it went. Fluff from tundra cotton the size of leaves danced gently in the air like giant snowflakes.

This was one of the many reasons Eorlund used wolf furs for the inner layer of the wolf armor. It protected against the cold climate of Skyrim, as well as the harsh winds of the tundra surrounding their home city. Still, the wind had a bite to it as Skjor pulled his red cape over his shoulder and around his neck. The cape, decorated by the golden broidery of Wuuthrad, served mostly as a badge of honor for the members of the Circle. It provided little protection against the elements, but it worked well as a makeshift scarf.

There had been a reason Skjor had been anxious to leave early, other than his usual impatient temper and belief in timeliness. His knee ached... and walking seemed to ease the dull pain earlier creeping beneath his kneecap. It was an old injury. Old even by the time The Companions found him and offered him to join in their ranks. It had been given to him during the Great War, almost 30 years ago, from a clumsy mistake on the battlefield. And so he had never blamed anyone but his younger self for it. But to Skjor it was more than a mistake. It was an embarrassment. So he had hidden it well long ago, swearing to never tell anyone about it nor its origin. For weakness was something he had always found… disgusting. For only the weak were defeated.

After the Great War, he left the Imperial Army to become a sellsword. After all, fighting was all that he knew. But because of his injury, he'd never be able to fight multiple opponents at once again, a fact he had been painfully aware of. So he sought contracts amongst the nobles across Tamriel. A quest which eventually took him to a country to the far northwest of Tamriel. To High Rock, land of mountains and home of the Bretons, where politics ruled the battlefield.

He soon found himself living a life of comfort. The money was good, and the women were good. Hired to protect nobles, he knew he'd only have to fight the occasional ¨duel-in-my-name-to-protect-my-honor¨ duels the nobles so often enjoyed sporting with amongst one another, and perhaps the occasional lone political assassin trying to poison the glasses of wine. But the assassins were never a real threat… at least not to him. Unlike the nameless Orc Skjors employer once pitted him against simply for entertainment and gambling. As the crowded arena cheered Skjor had felt little but a hollow victory as he stood over his fallen opponent, wearing a new scar across his newly blinded eye.

Eventually, the comfort of good life caught up to him and his heart once again yearned for battle. Real battle, where he could once again feel the thrill of fear, the warmth of rushing blood. Little did it help that the grape-eating nobles attitudes toward him were nothing more than to use him as a tool for their games. Their undisciplined lifestyles of luxury began to annoy him, to the point where he found himself loathing them, even hating them. Soon the hate became self-hatred for allowing them to use him the way they did. He had never found honor in dueling in their names, but now he had even begun losing his own self-respect… That's when he met Kodlak.

Offered with the promise to fight for honor, to teach, and, more importantly to Skjor, to choose his own battles, he accepted Kodlak's offer without question and together they traveled east, into the cold and frozen land of Skyrim. His years as a Companion began as he proudly named Jorrvaskr his home. He had the knowledge and experience to teach and quickly took on that role. As he once again trained with the mightiest of warriors, he was cruelly reminded of his old injury. He feared he could never again become as strong as his former self, nor as strong as the very men he now trained. So he hid his shame and fear behind false confidence and eyes of judging discipline until his very presence demanded respect.

To his surprise, it worked. Within a short number of years they made him a respected member of the Circle. And as a member of the Circle, it didn't take long until Askar, Kodlak's predecessor as Harbinger, offered him strength in the blessed form of Lycanthropy. Once again, given the promise of strength, Skjor accepted without question.

And he loved it. He loved how the bestial blood gave him back his previous strength, no… enhanced it beyond his comprehension. He loved his enhanced senses. He loved his enhanced strength and reflexes. He loved it all. But mostly, he loved how the throbbing pain from his old injury had vanished… Healed by the wolf-blood now coursing through his veins. Healed by this ¨Gift of Hircine¨ he placed his knife against his open fist and swore… On his lycanthropic blood, he swore… to never again become the injured weak man he had been for far too many years. For to be weak was to be defeated. And now… he had defeated the very weakness he so shamefully had worn for far too long.

More than youthful vigor returned. He once again fought, trained, and made a name for himself, once again feeling the rush of war as he battled. ¨Kodlak and Skjor fighting one-hundred and one orc berserkers,¨ ¨Skjor the Scarred,¨ ¨The strongest Companion.¨ He took honor and pride in them all, for none had come easy. And none of them possible had it not been for this ¨Gift of Hircine.¨

Thus his years passed with pride. Until the day he came face-to-face with the one opponent no man could ever wish to defeat, no matter their strength… Passing of time.

He had become old. His body still strong and his senses sharp, but as much as he wanted to stubbornly deny it, he had become an old man. Like Kodlak had before him. The full head of blond hair he once wore had whitened and thinned, lingering only around his temples and neck. His bladder had begun to fail him, as almost every night he woke with the urgent need to urinate. Even his pecker would more times than not refuse his will, as he shared a bed with his beloved Aela. But worst of all, his old injury had resurfaced. Slowly creeping back inside his knee.

But he would deny it all, both to the others and even to himself. For he had sworn long ago… on his lycanthropic blood… to never become the weak man he once had been. For to be weak was to be defeated.