The sound was beautiful. His body rocked side to side ever so slightly, to a drumbeat only he could hear. The loose dreads spilling across his back caught sunlight like a sabrecat's eye and like a piper to a beast he was drawn closer. Vilkas was fully staring, eyes widened as if trying to hear the tune better.
The Bosmer could feel eyes on him, maybe it was the birds or a wandering spirit coming to enjoy his song. He turned around and saw no-one, Vilkas' back leaning against a shaded wall.
So he played, and Vilkas listened. Listened and secretly pined to be able to do the same.
Well it turns out the man was certainly hiding something. He was a werewolf, just like Farkas. His brother was sweet and endearingly trusting when the Silver Hand made him use the gift before the whelp's eyes, and he promised not to tell. He learned that each take to the blood in their own way, Farkas held it down well. He was resilient like a mountain, or maybe too ignorant to feel it's torment.
But Vilkas was different. “He doesn't like to give in to anything, even if he likes it. I don't know why but he's always been that way. Sure it's not good to let the wolf out all the time, but I just wish he'd be happier.” While most in the circle attempted sleep, Vilkas stayed up and read his books, stewed in his crankiness.
“I can imagine it'd be tough to stay awake for years on end with no company but your darkest thoughts. I understand why your brother behaves the way he does.”
“Maybe you can talk to him, then. He doesn't make friends easy but I think that's what he really needs. I think he likes you.”
“Hah!” The Bosmer laughed out, toting their gear back as they returned home. “Likes me? I've gotten admirers of all kinds but your brother has the strangest way of showing it.”
“That's the thing, he doesn't. He's bad at showing if he wants something, none of the women in this town take him seriously. He acts tough because he wants to run things his way, and cuz he's smaller. He got so sick when he was a whelp himself, Kodlak wasn't sure he was going to survive. I guess that's why he's not big like me.” It sounded like Farkas was yearning to tell someone about his worries for a while now. He'd listen.
“He likes you cuz you're smart. You always talk about how you've been to Elseweyre and the Altmer islands. You know, he always wanted to see those places.”
“You both are still young, there's time. I'd be glad to tell him if he'd be willing to listen.”
Farkas smiled at him and the Bosmer beamed right back, feeling heat prickle at his ears and cheeks. Divines, he was a sight to see... But that was it, really. The more time he spent with Farkas the more he seemed like a cold coal, while Vilkas was bright and hot- A burning, smoldering man.
That night, Farkas vouched for him. He raised a mug in his honor and for the first time in a long time, they welcomed a new man into their quarry. For the first time, thanks to his honest dedication and good deeds, he was accepted as a warrior. It was with more inviting hearts that he was allowed to speak of his tales before the fire, Vilkas seated farther down the table while his brother and the rest circled the foreign bard.
But he listened. A deep in his cups Vilkas found himself relishing story after story of the Dragonborn's hunts of dragons, of the endless sand-seas of Hammerfell, chitinous worms the size of 4 mammoths with razor-sharp hides. His stories ended and those noises came back, chairs pulled around as the new companion played long, narrow flutes made of dwarven metal, small round lute-like instruments that he drag horsehair bows across.
Muses and Mead 7 (Vilkas M/M)
The Bosmer could feel eyes on him, maybe it was the birds or a wandering spirit coming to enjoy his song. He turned around and saw no-one, Vilkas' back leaning against a shaded wall.
So he played, and Vilkas listened. Listened and secretly pined to be able to do the same.
Well it turns out the man was certainly hiding something. He was a werewolf, just like Farkas. His brother was sweet and endearingly trusting when the Silver Hand made him use the gift before the whelp's eyes, and he promised not to tell. He learned that each take to the blood in their own way, Farkas held it down well. He was resilient like a mountain, or maybe too ignorant to feel it's torment.
But Vilkas was different. “He doesn't like to give in to anything, even if he likes it. I don't know why but he's always been that way. Sure it's not good to let the wolf out all the time, but I just wish he'd be happier.” While most in the circle attempted sleep, Vilkas stayed up and read his books, stewed in his crankiness.
“I can imagine it'd be tough to stay awake for years on end with no company but your darkest thoughts. I understand why your brother behaves the way he does.”
“Maybe you can talk to him, then. He doesn't make friends easy but I think that's what he really needs. I think he likes you.”
“Hah!” The Bosmer laughed out, toting their gear back as they returned home. “Likes me? I've gotten admirers of all kinds but your brother has the strangest way of showing it.”
“That's the thing, he doesn't. He's bad at showing if he wants something, none of the women in this town take him seriously. He acts tough because he wants to run things his way, and cuz he's smaller. He got so sick when he was a whelp himself, Kodlak wasn't sure he was going to survive. I guess that's why he's not big like me.” It sounded like Farkas was yearning to tell someone about his worries for a while now. He'd listen.
“He likes you cuz you're smart. You always talk about how you've been to Elseweyre and the Altmer islands. You know, he always wanted to see those places.”
“You both are still young, there's time. I'd be glad to tell him if he'd be willing to listen.”
Farkas smiled at him and the Bosmer beamed right back, feeling heat prickle at his ears and cheeks. Divines, he was a sight to see... But that was it, really. The more time he spent with Farkas the more he seemed like a cold coal, while Vilkas was bright and hot- A burning, smoldering man.
That night, Farkas vouched for him. He raised a mug in his honor and for the first time in a long time, they welcomed a new man into their quarry. For the first time, thanks to his honest dedication and good deeds, he was accepted as a warrior. It was with more inviting hearts that he was allowed to speak of his tales before the fire, Vilkas seated farther down the table while his brother and the rest circled the foreign bard.
But he listened. A deep in his cups Vilkas found himself relishing story after story of the Dragonborn's hunts of dragons, of the endless sand-seas of Hammerfell, chitinous worms the size of 4 mammoths with razor-sharp hides. His stories ended and those noises came back, chairs pulled around as the new companion played long, narrow flutes made of dwarven metal, small round lute-like instruments that he drag horsehair bows across.