This Fan-Fic is just something I spontaneously began writing, which will include some of my Skyrim characters in it, and hopefully weave itself into something awesome. Hope you guys enjoy it. Critique and complements are welcome.



Chapter 1
The Prey



The pounding of Anglor’s heart was intense. The rapid motion had been persisting in his chest for far too long, his heart growing weary of supporting its own contractions, and the movements of the Wood Elf’s own legs. Each pulsation of his weakening heart felt like an agonizing blow to his midsection, and his lungs felt as though they were sundering with every harsh breath. Anglor had been running too hard for too long, he had to stop; his body just wouldn’t support him anymore. I can’t stop! It will get me! I can’t let it get me!

And so the Bosmer ran. He ran through the thick pine forest, under Skyrim’s dark night sky, the horrific image of his slain comrades fresh in his mind. He ran until his heart threatened to burst forth from his ribcage, and he sagged onto the ground, vomiting his dinner onto the snow. He collapsed into a crumpled heap, his gasps for air sounding like a dying animal. Anglor didn’t know how long he lay there, listening to sound of his own ragged breathing, trying to regain his composure. His body was glazed with pain, and a light sheen of sweat covered his skin.

It had all started as a normal night for him. Anglor and his fellow bandits, five of them in all, had taken up their normal positions on the road to Whiterun. It was a good spot, where the thick foliage gave good cover, and the small walls on either side of the cobbled path created a choke point. They usually waited until someone came along, such as a bumbling farmer or a group of travelers. The bandits would jump out, rob the victims blind, and walk out of the situation with heavy purses and bottles of booze in hand. If the victims resisted the hold up, they were killed. Simple as that.

This was one of those hold ups where the victims resisted. The small caravan of refugees pleaded that they be let through, and that they were out of money. They told tragic tales of how they had been misplaced by the war and had nowhere to live. Ree-Jah, the Argonian ringleader of the bandits, gave the order to Anglor and the rest of the bandits to kill them. And they did. They cut down the group of refugees, spilling their blood across the cobbles of the road, taking all of their gear.

It was all just business to Anglor, it was how he survived. The group sat down around their campfire that night like always, drinking mead and telling stories, laughing like old friends. They feasted on the vitals they had procured from the wreckage of the caravan, and gambled away what money they had, just like they always did. But something this night was different than the other nights. On this night, there was something out there, just outside the comforting glow of the firelight. It was watching them. Waiting. Waiting for the chance to strike. And it did indeed strike.

At what seemed to be the climix of the bandit’s merry making, the beast attacked. Anglor didn’t even realize what was happening until two of his friends were reduced to tattered pulp. The creature, if that’s what it truly was, moved too fast for Anglor’s eyes to properly perceive the slaughter. Blurs of motion followed by screams and a spray of blood was the only thing the Bosmer could comprehend. In short, the beast tore through the highwaymen as if they were made of flimsy parchment. The Wood Elf didn’t even know that he was running until the distant, dying howls of Ree-Jah reached his ears.

Fight or flight. It defines who is the warrior, and who is the coward. It defines who is the fool, and who is the survivor. Anglor’s friends chose to fight, and they died. Anglor chose to flee, and he lived, at least for the time being. He ran until he could run no more, until he found himself in his current predicament.

Finally, after what felt like ages, Anglor rose from his fetal position in the snow. The vomitus he had protruded, either due to his over exertion or the horrific scene he had just witnessed, was melting the snow that had lightly blanketed the forest floor, sending wisps of stream into the night sky. All around him, the wood was still, silent, and calm. The perfect place to be devoured by some monstrosity.

His mind was filled with the image of his slain comrades, even though their mangled corpses and gruesome deaths were seen within a window of only a few seconds. Watching someone die was a life changing experience. It tears at your soul and forces open new pathways for emotion to flow through your mind. Killing someone does something similar, giving your brain new ways to think, often driving men mad with guilt. But watching your friends, your brothers, die right before your very eyes?

Anglor pushed the thoughts out of his mind, trying his best to control his breathing. You can do this. The Bosmer preformed a quick check of his person, finding that he had left his longbow back in the camp, along with his quiver of arrows, but he still had his leather armor and steel dagger on him. Better than nothing, but considering how the beast had eviscerated his comrades, they seemed redundant. He knew that if he encountered that monster, he was good as dead.

The moon was waxing high in the sky, indicating that it was only a few hours until midnight. Anglor quickly concluded that he needed to get as far away from that creature as possible, wherever it may be. If headed into Eastmarch, and found a cozy little cave to spend the rest of the night in, it might not be able to find him. The brilliance of his newfound plan gave him a grim yet fragile determination, and he was on his way.

That determination died when he turned around, and saw the beast standing before him. It didn’t have a flashy introduction, or an epic appearance like in the Imperial Dramas and plays. It was just there, watching him, and that’s what was truly terrifying. It was massive, standing at least six to seven feet tall, with hungry, yellow eyes. Its limbs were made of muscle that was coiled like rope, and covered in fur that was almost as black as the night itself. The creature’s face was utterly lupine, bristling with fur and sporting a jaw filled with rows of razor sharp fangs. It was a Werewolf.

Anglor didn’t squeal and jump in fright; he just stood there, staring back at the man-wolf. Its eyes were hungry, even angry. In a way, the Bosmer knew what that glare meant. It meant that he had lost, that he was about to die. It was an odd feeling, knowing you are about to die. All of your grudges, petty rivalries, and emotions went right out the window. Nothing mattered anymore, except for preparing yourself for death’s embrace.

All of a sudden, the beast blurred into motion. Anglor’s eyes observed it in deep interest as it lunged towards him. It was a beautiful, and horrifying, sight. This was no animal, it was a machine . A perfect machine, built to hunt, built to kill. Nothing could stop it. The last thing the Bosmer thought of before being sent to Sovngard was how lucky he was to have his life ended by such a perfect specimen.

---

Good so far. I hope ya post more soon.

Thanks! I'll hopefully have more tomorrow.

YEW. POST. MORE. NOAW.

Damn. Another friend who is thousand times better in the abilities of writing. I'm going to retire while you carry on.

No! You're not allowed!

Nice; the action is well-described, and Anglor's fear is palpable. My only critique would be to rearrange the first paragraph a bit.



Otherwise, really great opening Looking forward to the next chapter!

Thanks dude! I should have it done by tomorrow. And his thoughts help transition into the second paragraph, thats why they are where they are at. Now that i look back at it, i know i could have added in more detail. Perhaps ill edit it later?

Very nice story and I mean it, I actually read it all the way through which is something cause I usually just skim. I thought your description was spot on, more or less, you didn't have so much that it was boring to read or too less so that it was...hard to read. It was easy, flowed well, crafted with awesome. And I have to agree with you on the thoughts at the first paragraph, I think they do help the transition. If do add more detail, be careful that you don't add too much, the first paragraph is usually meant to hook the reader, so too much detail and it...doesn't.

But honestly, nice job, I'll be watching this one, definitely my favorite fanfic at the moment.

Hoo-boy, "crafted with awesome" xD
Thanks man, I appreciate it. Next part up later today, hopefully.

I read it and I loved it. Nothing like a good and mysterious werewolf tale that exemplifies the majestic gift of Lycanthropy at it's finest! Keep writing sir! We only have a few werewolf stories in these forums!

Thanks! haha the next part should be up soon, but the Werewolf isnt in it till the next chapter

Sorry i took so long it writing this, and I apologize for its quality as well. Had a lot stuff going on this week, hope you enjoy!


Siri’s hands and wrists were sore from working on the tanning rack. For several hours, the Nord had been working on transferring the wolf pelts and deer hides she had collected from the past week into pieces of workable leather. The work wasn’t necessarily hard for her, just overly tedious. Siri hated tedious work. But smithing, in all its aspects, was an extremely fun job, despite the hazards, and monotonous labor. The end product was well worth it, seeing something you had personally created put to good use.

“Siri” said a gruff voice behind her. “I’m taking Ysolda and Ongar on a scouting trip down the river and to Olav’s camp. Care to tag along?” asked the man known as Hordvir.

Siri rose from her half crouched position in front of the tanning rack, relishing the relief that emanated from her cramped ankles. “I can’t, I have to tan these hides for the Quartermaster, and then I was planning on helping him craft some armaments” replied the petite Nord woman. Siri wasn’t unappealing by any means, for many men sought to take her as their own, due to her clear and attractive features. Long, golden blonde hair framed her delicate face, which held cold, blue eyes. Most people are surprised when they discover that such a fragile young lady was a soldier in the Stormcloak rebellion.

Hordvir grunted in reply. The Nord was a large man, easily standing over six feet tall, with a thick, muscular build. Copious locks of dark, raven colored hair flowed from his head, and a newly applied layer of war-paint adorned his weathered face. He wore a thick layer of furs over his body, but Siri knew his Stormcloak officer’s raiment was underneath. It was said that Hordvir had the strength, and temper, of a wild bear. “Alright. We should return ‘round nightfall, hopefully with some information on Imperial movements” he said, his vowels course like sand. “And I expect a hot meal for us all when we get back” the Nord added with a smirk.
“Unless you bring back some salt, don’t expect anything worth eating” replied Siri.

Hordvir chuckled and left, taking two other scouts with him. Siri loved scouting and reconnaissance missions. They were where she could best utilize her skills in stealth, observation, and the occasional hit and run guerrilla attacks. The young woman didn’t necessarily love fighting and killing, though. In a way, it sickened her, but it was what she had to do. Most of the time, she was content staying back and fighting the war with her music, poetry, and healing magic.

Before she had joined the Stormcloaks, Siri was a traveling bard, going from place to place, playing music for patrons in taverns and alehouses, crafting various weaponries, studying poetry and history, and swindling ignorant village folk out of their coin (as well as the occasional pickpocketing and burglary). It wasn’t long before she ended up in the city of Windhelm, and made friends with a group of prospective Stormcloak recruits. They joined together, and were stationed in southwestern corner of Eastmarch, as a part of a defensive unit meant to keep the Imperials at bay. Despite the nationalism that flowed through her veins, Siri didn’t exactly enjoy fighting with the rebels, but she had a long standing grudge against the Empire, and their Thalmor puppets. They were the true enemy, the Thalmor. Her Nordic brothers and sisters might not realize that, but she did.

So here she was, tanning pelts, playing music, and fighting alongside her Nordic brethren. It felt kind of good, being united under a cause, helping one another achieve it. But at other times, she felt as though she was just being strung along like a puppet, just like the Thalmor was doing to the Empire. Some nights Siri fell asleep knowing that there was something more to this war, something going on behind the scenes.
Regardless, she was enjoying herself today. She had a good night’s rest for once, and was euphoric from a morning of productive exercise. After she finished tanning the hides into leather, she transported them over to the quartermaster. She spent a majority of the afternoon sewing the leather together to create light, yet protective armors, which would be sent back to Windhelm. Once she had completed her tasks at the camp’s makeshift forge, she went back to her tent.

The lodging that Siri had been calling her home for the past week was nothing but a wire frame of bent tree limbs with animal furs draqed over top, creating a rudimentary shelter. It was large, in comparison to the other tents, but that was because she shared it with another person. Inside were two bedrolls, two small chests used to store personal belongings, and a random smattering of gear, including Siri’s lute. She looked at the instrument longingly. It wasn’t the most pretentious lute ever made, fashioned from simple oak and secondhand strings, but it was still her favorite possession of all. She treated it like her child.

Siri couldn’t play any of her instruments in the camp, though, for fear of giving away their position to the enemy. That last thing the Stormcloaks needed was to be cut down in the midst of The Dragonborn Comes. She disregarded the instrument, and procured a leather bound book from the foot of her bedroll, titled Racial Physiology. Siri, unlike most of her Nord brothers and sisters, enjoyed to read and learn things, especially when it came to science and metaphysical workings of the world.

She took the tome outside the tent, and into the camp, where she could utilize the sun while it was still up. The camp itself was by no means large, only holding less than a dozen sons and daughters of Skyrim. It was a small ring of tents and makeshift structures, with a large fire pit in the center, where all soldiers gathered around after a long day of hunting or fighting. Sitting at the edge of this fire was Alga, Siri’s best friend in the Stormcloaks. Alga shared the tent with Siri, and was known as a “Shield Maiden” amongst the ranks of the rebels, which was more of a support unit than the normal soldier. Shield Maidens were skilled in the art of Restoration, and used this magic on the battlefield to heal wounded soldiers, as well as doctor the injured back at camp.

Alga had taut Siri almost everything the Bard knew about Restoration, despite the Shield Maiden’s young age. She was just barely of age, and could barely swing her sword to kill. Her body was even more slender than Siri’s, but the months of hard fighting and roughing it in the wilderness had hardened her delicacy into sheer grit and willpower. She wore her dirty blonde hair short and tied back, and her pretty face was often slightly smudged with dirt and some fashionable war paint. Alga saw Siri looking at her, and supplied a wave and a small smile.

Across the fire from the Shield Maiden sat Jorn, who was whittling at a small branch he had found. Jorn was one of those battle crazed youth, filled with raw skill, but had little experience to govern it. He was constantly boasting about how he was going to fall in battle, and be sent off to Sovngard with all of the great heroes of old. His face had a somewhat ruddy complexion, and his chin was filling in with stubble. His green eyes held a wild and arrogant expression to them, and his hair was thick and unkempt.

There was movement behind Jorn as someone stepped out of tent. It was Korst. Korst was tall and sinewy, his thick muscles and thin body giving him a strange and unbalanced appearance. His dark brown shoulder-length hair was greasy and carried a few braids, and he wore his war-paint thickly around his eyes, looking as though they were sunken back into his skull. Siri loathed this man, Korst. Aside from being impolite, arrogant, and selfish, he once attempted to [censored] her after drinking a bit too much mead, but failed. A malicious grin appeared on his gaunt face when he spotted Siri, who forced herself to look away. She tensed up as he passed by, ready spring into action and break his neck if need be. Unfortunately, he left her be, and headed over to the forge to begin sharpening his broadsword.

At this point, Siri was tired of giving mental recognition to her fellow Stormcloaks in the camp, such as Hfojd, who was cleaning a pair of rabbits he had hunted and killed this morning, or Sten, who was inspecting his greatsword. The bard-turned-soldier sat down next to Alga, and opened her book. It was a fascinating volume on the genetics and reproduction of the humanoid species of Tamriel, and theories about crossbreeding between Men, Mer, and the Beast Races.

By the time Siri had become bored with the book and put it away, it was late evening, and the sun was beginning its descent bellow the horizon, filling the sky with a rich lavender color. Her stomach protested its lack of content, and she rose to find something to eat. After a not so filling meal of dried meat and cold vegetables, Siri and Alga talked until the sun had fully set, masking the world in darkness.
“Hordvir said he would be back by now” said Siri. “Hope he hasn’t gotten himself in over his head again.”

Alga snorted. “He’s probably just drinking with Olav, or just a tad late. You worry too much.”

Siri couldn’t help but smile at the notion of Hordvir getting drunk and trying to make his way back to the camp in the dark. “I suppose.”

But the night continued on, with no sign of Hordvir and his scouts. Hours past, with no noise from the surrounding forest except the occasional howl of what sounded like a wolf. It was nearly the following day by the time the Stormcloak’s ranking officer returned to camp covered in blood and carrying a limp body. Hordvir’s thick traveling furs were tattered and dashed with blood, some of it his own, and a deep gash resided on his forehead. The body he was carrying was that of Ongar, one of his scouts. Ysolda, his other scout, came limping into the camp behind him, with an arrow protruding from her lower calf.

The camp exploded into action as the Stormcloak’s leader arrived, everyone offering assistance and taking orders. Hordvir took the Ongar, who was draqed over his shoulder, and gently laid him on the ground, near the fire, and propped his two handed axe up against a nearby tree. Its blade was glistening with fresh blood. Alga immediately rushed to Ongar’s side and applied her healing magics, which casted a soft glow onto the faces of those who observed. Siri jumped to the aid of those wounded as well, first helping Alga with Ongar, who had suffered from several small stab wounds, and a nasty laceration across his back, as well as a minor arrow wound, but he would live. Ysolda’s calf injury was quickly patched up and prevented from festering, which just left Hordvir.

The Stormcloak commander paced around the camp for a while, before finally sitting down and accepting first aid. As Siri and Alga had tended to the shallow cuts and bruises that covered his body, as well as an arrow lodged in his soldier, Jorn asked “What happened?”

“Those damn Imperials jumped us!” he snarled, releasing his pent up rage that was known all too well throughout the camp. “We were scouting with Olav and his men down near the river, at the border between Eastmarch and The Rift, but they were waiting for us. Outnumbered about ten to one we were, I’m surprised we made it out of there alive. Olav lost two of his scouts, and the other was wounded, but we gave those faithless pigs one hell of a thrashing…” he trailed off, wincing in pain as the arrow was removed from his shoulder.

Hordvir’s medical treatment was quickly completed, and the camp became eerily silent. Everyone’s eyes fell on him, as if waiting for him to rain judgment down from the skies upon them. He glanced around, a wild anger in his eyes, and licked his lips. “The Imperials have a camp set up at that ford jus’ south of here. That ford cannot stay in their hands, ‘cause it opens up a supply routes n’ a secure way to travel in our lands.” The Stormcloak officer was pacing now. “Tomorrow, sons and daughters of Skyrim, we will march to that ford, and we kill all of those damn Imperial cowards! Tomorrow, we will take back what is ours, and we will drive these invaders out of our lands, or die trying!” he roared, voice carrying into the forest.

“For Talos! For the High King! For Skyrim!” shouted the rest of the Stormcloaks in unison, as if they had been practicing it all day. It was stuff like this that reminded Siri she was in a war.

Schmuty read, Schmuty love.

This is damn promising. I hope to see more.If not I will do terrible things to you. BUT I FEEL SO HUMBLED BY YOUR WRITING. Keep up the work, mother dearest. ?

Why thank ya. AND I AM NOT YOUR MOTHER.

YES YOU ARE, DON'T DENY IT.

Yes sir :/

That one was even more interesting i think. It didn't seem to have any spelling errors or anything either, but then again I'm not super great at noticing em haha. Nice chapter though.

I've noticed that he likes to put "course" instead of "coarse", and I noticed it in this one too. Just sayin'. Good writing though, buddy!

Really??? Damn! I hate it when i do stuff like that, because i'm thinking of spelling it properly. Most of the time, at least. Sometimes i write entire sentences backwards too haha. But thanks dude! Much appreciated.