A dirt path cut across the expansive plains of grass where a pair of horses trotted about, pulling behind them a wagon captained by a blonde, brutish Nord who looked a little worse for wear. White bandages wrapped around his arms and forehead, and clumps of dirt stained his blue armor and clung to his shoulder-length hair. The Nord studied his bandaged wounds, his mind straying to deep thoughts. He remembered how small the war started: soldiers reluctant to fight other soldiers they once considered Shield-Brothers and Sisters, but, as time dragged on and more and more Skyrim Holds chose sides, the blood spilt marred whatever past the soldiers may have shared until both sides could only think of spilling the blood of the other. And that last battle was one of the most gruesome Tallowhand had to take part in, and he knew it was only going to get worse. The healer advised him to wait a few days for his wounds to heal, but the Nord knew he had spent far too long away from his slave and daughter. Their supply of food must have been dangerously low by now, so the moment the healer finished bandaging the worst of his wounds, he was already off to return home with a wagon full of fresh supplies.

The skies were clear, and the full moon and stars shined brightly through the darkness, and yet, he could not keep his wary eyes trained on the tall grass that surrounded him. It felt like the dirt road had shrunk into an impossibly narrow path with the tall grass looming over him like mountains. Tallowhand recognized this feeling. It was his warrior instincts, warning him of danger, crawling under his skin and making every blonde hair stand on end.

He was being hunted.

Millions of possibilities ran through his head. Have the Imperials sent one of their own to assassinate one of Ulfric's strongest soldiers while he was still injured? No. He doubt the Imperials knew of his home's location, so they couldn't have sent a soldier to wait in advance. And Tallowhand had not seen any horse or man for days, so he couldn't have been followed. It was a possibility those cowards hired an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood skilled at Illusion magic to keep themselves hidden. Tallowhand scowled at the thought. This wasn't the first time he crossed paths with that accursed cult.

There was a rustle of grass to his right, and immediately focused his gaze on that sight. There was nothing there. Tallowhand could've attributed the rustle from the night's gentle breeze, but Tallowhand did not miss that red blur that existed only for a moment before it disappeared. For the entire trip, he kept one hand held onto the reins while the other remained close to the sword strapped to his hip, his eyes darting left and right looking for something to behead. He spotted his home just over the horizon and he finally took a deep breath. Being hunted was drowning him in suspense.

But then, the horses, finally sensing the unseen danger, reared up their front legs and cried in fright. Tallowhand urged them forward with a flick of the reins, but they refused to take a single step. That could only mean one thing: the hunter is up ahead. The Nord stepped down from the wagon and unsheathed his blade. Even after the carnage his blade endured, its sharpness shined proudly under the moonlight. His stance, his steps, they betrayed his wounded appearance. The Nord walked with such focus and confidence; it was as if he had no injuries at all.

He could feel this ominous gaze pierce into his heart. He could feel his heart quiver from its intense pressure, causing to rapidly pump fear and adrenaline into his veins. And sweat dropped from his forehead like rivers. Years… it's been year since he had come across a predator that can shake the foundations of his hardened spirit. And the song of chirping crickets, which once soothed this old warrior's soul, with each step he took began to twist and warp into an unholy noise that raked his ear drums. They were agitated and afraid. Of what, he did not know, but he feared he would soon. One moment, the crickets' chirping devolved into inhuman screeching, and the next… silence. All at once. The battle was about to begin.

Left or right, no matter which side of the tall grass this predator sprang from, his sword arm will be ready to cut off its head.

And so, it was his mistake to never think of an attack from above.

Tallowhand glanced at his shadow, confused why it suddenly became rounder and larger. His eyes widened in horrified revelation. He turned around and gazed up at the sky to see a great, red Beast eclipse the moon and the Nord was consumed by its shadow. Its razor-sharp claws and bared teeth glinted fiercely under the moonlight. The red Beast tackled the Nord. The Nord's back slid painfully against the ground kicking up clouds of dirt. When the dust settled, Tallowhand found himself with one arm held against the Beast's throat, barely holding back the Beast's snapping jaws from tearing into his face with its disgusting drool splashing over him. With a warrior's cry, Tallowhand poured every ounce of his strength into his legs and kicked the monster off him. The Beast yelped in pain and surprise as he was launched a few feet away from his prey.

Quickly, the Nord jumped back onto his feet and quickly surveyed his wounds. The Beast's claws had torn some of the bandages and he could feel some of his wounds opening back up. He shifted his gaze on the Beast before him. Both monster and Nord sized the other up.

To the Beast, his prey was clearly injured and weakened. He could smell the sweet blood that stained his white bandages red. The Beast could easily pounce his weakened prey and end it with a bite to his throat, but the prey's cold, steely gaze caused him to hesitate. This one was different. Unlike the prey in the forest nearby who would cower and whimper from his fearsome presence, this one's spirit remained steadfast and strong. Attacking carelessly would be a fatal mistake.

And to the Nord, he immediately he recognized the creature as a werewolf. But this particular werewolf was unlike anything he had ever faced before. The Beast's head was a mix of both wolf and lion with a majestic mane and yellow, cat-like eyes glaring at him with murderous intent. And its scruffy, thin tail was longer than usual, dragging against the ground as the Beast slowly circled the Nord on all fours. Tallowhand did the same, keeping his sword raised and daring the Beast to strike.

Tallowhand's thoughts strayed to his slave and daughter. Were they safe inside the house, or were they made a meal by the Beast? No. Werewolves were messy eaters. Had they been killed, the Beast would have been drenched in blood. Right now, the Beast's crimson red fur spotless. The Nord gripped his sword tighter.

For now.

In an instant, the Beast dashed forward like a bolt of lightning. Tallowhand could see the Beast's movements like time had slowed. He saw all four paws of the Beast brought close together. Tallowhand predicted the Beast was going to pour all of its strength into a single pounce too fast for him to defend himself from, so he had to strike now before it could finish! The Nord brought his sword down with an overhead swing to chop the monster's head in two!

However, with a subtle twist and turn of the Beast's paw, the werewolf had leapt to the side instead of forward, narrowly dodging the blade. Before Tallowhand could return to a defensive stance, burning pain RIPPED into his back and he cursed in pain. The Nord stumbled, regained his footing, and looked back to see one of the Beast's clawed hands drenched in blood, the corners of his black lips curled upwards. That bastard of a monster was smiling!

Rage fueled the Nord, numbing the pain. One good strike and this little shit thinks he's the apex predator? Time ta show this mutt why my Shield-Siblings call me Bloodbringer.

The Beast sensed a change in the air. There was a new intensity in the warrior's cold, calculating gaze. For a moment, the Beast could not move, nor could he even breath, like his entire soul had frozen over! Quickly he shook his head and took a step back, then his eyes widened when he realized what he done. Was he actually afraid of this prey? The Beast released a warning growl to mask his moment of weakness; however, it was far too late. The seed of fear was already planted into his soul, and soon it would grow to be his downfall.

His prey took a single step forward, and the Beast felt a strong compulsion to take a step back, but he fought back the urge with an angered growl. He was the predator here! Not the prey! The Beast rose to his full height on two feet, claws extended drenched in Nord blood and teeth bared dripping with hunger. He thought his prey would at least flinch at the sight, but no, the warrior's spirit remained unyielding to the terror in front of him. Without a second thought, the Beast roared and charged forward to rip his foolish prey into shreds! The Nord did the same, unleashing his own battle cry! The Beast made a horizontal swipe at the Nord to slice his throat open, but the Nord made a sudden dive and losing only a couple of blonde hairs; he slid on the dirt ground and slashed at the Beast's ankle, cleaving through fur and muscle.

A pitiful yelp escaped the Beast's muzzle as he fell on all fours. He tried to pounce on his prey in retaliation before the Nord could get up; a bolt of pain shot from his injured paw. The werewolf stumbled and fell to the ground. The Nord saw his chance; he charged forward to deal the killing blow.

Desperate, the Beast swiped at the Nord to keep him at bay; a futile effort. With deadly precision, the Nord's blade pierced through the palm of the Beast's clawed hand and into the ground below. The Beast tried to pull his hand back, but, because the blade was firmly bound to the ground, his hand lay helplessly trapped between earth and steel. And with his ankle torn, getting up became a near-impossible task. A hard, blunt force then crashed into the Beast's head. Dazed and ears ringing, he looked up and was barely given a second to see the Nord's armored boot sailing into his vision before the light was kicked out of his eyes. Again and again; blow after blow; teeth flying, blood splattering, and bones cracking. The Nord never ceased his ruthless assault. With each strike to the head, the moonlight was consumed to the darkness encroaching the Beast's vision. The Beast's vision clouded and his entire head numbed by pain; he barely registered the sudden weight on his back. A fistful of his mane was roughly grabbed to lift his head up, exposing his vulnerable neck to the cold, metallic sharpness of the Nord's dagger.

Even on the verge of death, the Beast could only think of Little Prey. He thought he could protect her from this unknown intruder; yet here he lay bloodied and defeated. Guilt ate him away from inside. He thought he was strong enough so the lost he experienced last time could never happen again. The Beast's thoughts paused. Last time… even now the Beast never could understand what that missing piece in his heart was. And with the blade pressing harder into his neck, perhaps he never will.

"Papa! Wait!" a small voice cried from afar.

Tallowhand, a breath away from slitting the werewolf's throat, looked up to see his daughter, tears streaming from her eyes, running towards them.

"Cereza!" Tallowhand shouted back, annoyed anger in his voice. "Get back inside!" He glared at the whimpering animal beneath him and pressed his dagger closer to its neck. "Yer not ready ta see what happens next."

"But that's Kitt- Do'kir!"

Do'kir woke up with a painful groan, making a futile attempt to bat away the sunlight over his eyelids. He sat up from his bed, a hand clutching his aching head.

"Good ta see yer all right, lad."

It took some effort for the Khajiit to finally open his eyes. The first thing to greet his blurry vision was Sir Tallowhand sitting on a stool at the corner of the room next to him. The Nord was shirtless, revealing his entire torso wrapped in white bandages. Horror struck the young Khajiit's face. "Did… did Khajiit do that?"

"Aye. That you did, lad."

Regret and shame mixed with horror. Do'kir looked down at his hands. "Do'kir is sorry…"

To his surprise, Tallowhand responded with a boisterous laugh, filling the Khajiit's room with his booming voice. "If ya think I look bad, ya shoulda seen yerself after I was done wit ya! Almost had you be the replacement for the rug downstairs."

Do'kir shuddered at the thought.

"But enough about that." The Nord leaned in closer, an elbow on his knee. "What happened while I was gone?"

So Do'kir explained everything. He explained how a weakened werewolf attacked him and Cereza one night, how he was bitten protecting her, and how for the past three months the Khajiit was in constant stress and fear that he may one day harm her. Once he finished, Do'kir was shaking under the pressure of fear and uncertainty. Sir Tallowhand's eyes had remained emotionless throughout the entire explanation. Was the Nord going to deem the Khajiit too much of a threat and execute him on the spot?

Noticing his slave's quivering, Tallowhand assured him, "Calm down, lad. If ah wanted ya dead, I would have killed ya in yer sleep."

A small wave of calm eased the Khajiit's worried spirit. Sir Tallowhand was very much different to how he usually treated the Khajiit. Especially with how the Nord has been calling the Khajiit "lad" instead of "Boy". Not his name, but still a definite improvement. Was the newfound kindness payment for the hell he put the Khajiit through?

Finally finding the courage to ask, "So… what happens to Do'kir now?"

"Well…" The Nord slapped his knees before standing up. The Khajiit noticed a spark of excitement in the Nord's eyes. "It's about time I take ya to Skyrim."

Do'kir's jaw nearly hit the floor. His voice staggered to find the right words. "S-Skyrim? Why venture so far?"

"Because I know a couple of Companions who can help ya with yer condition…"