Both Nords warriors kept silence for a while after. Vilkas left his eyes drift on the Reach landscapes. It has to be a dozen of moons since he didn’t come here. It wasn’t so different though. The air was still carrying this particular smell of juniper and blood. The mountains were still as deadly and silent as the last time he came here. But the more they walked, the less rocks they encountered on their way. The craggy relief of Druadach Mountains was gradually giving up its place to the tundra of Whiterun hold. Vilkas sighed. His journey to the Reach had been very short. The distinct scent of lavender and cotton had already replaced the exalting musk of the most savage hold of Skyrim. He would have gladly stake a claim here but the thought of having his head impaled at the entrance of a Forsworn camp was quite dissuasive. He wanted to have his own territory but... Aside from Falkreath woods, thus woods had already been claimed by another man-beast, the other holds were too cold, too hot, too humid or too far, the Reach being just too dangerous for a werewolf. As a consequence, Vilkas was sharing a piece of land in Whiterun hold along with the rest of the Circle. A thing his beast despised.
The sudden smell of smoke drew his attention on the horizon. Uncoiled in the air at Kyne’s mercy, the black fold was tearing the burning skies apart above the Moldering ruins. So there was a camp here now. The wind blew through the red fields, carrying various scents on its breeze. Shutting his eyes, Vilkas started to decrypt the odours that lay in the air. Men. Dogs. No. Yes? Yes. Dogs. Red flowers. Venison. Smoke. Fire. Burnt flesh. Blood.
He opened his eyes. Blood. The beast yapped inside. Blood. Yes, blood. Oh, how he wanted to unleash his inner self! To run on the burned grass, to go and see and lap up the blood! To hunt the preys, to tear their flesh with his claws and fangs then to howl to the moons along a pack of wild wolves as the children of the night they were... But he couldn’t. Skjoll was there. And Skjoll didn’t know about what Vilkas was. No, he couldn’t do that. The beast will wait until the next moon. Then the beast will be.
But now, he had to think to something else, or his blood will break his skin and the beast will be unleashed. The Moldering ruins were a bit far from them now and the wind dragged a hint of magicka in its race. Vilkas’s eyes went to his shield-brother. It had been more than an hour that their last words were exchanged.
“Hey Skjoll...” called out Vilkas. “Can I ask you a question?”
Pulled out from his thoughts, Skjoll turned his eyes on him, a bit surprised.
“Yes. Of course you can.” He answered after a moment, settling his eyes on the paved road again.
Vilkas remained quiet for some minutes. Maybe his question was stupid. Wasn’t he being too curious by asking this? And if - Oh, to Oblivion the doubts.
“Why do you hate magicka so much?...Skjoll?” His comrade had stopped.
“Why did you stop Skjoll?”
“What is this?”
The remains of what had to be a carriage were resting on the side of the road. The wood was burned as if it had been taken in an explosion. But it wasn’t that thing that caught Vilkas attention, no. It was the kneeling black form leant over the body of a man, a hundred meters away from them. And the smell of blood surrounding them.
Re: Huge onyx wings behind despair (Until the light takes us/A dream of wolves in the snow) [2.1/?]
The sudden smell of smoke drew his attention on the horizon. Uncoiled in the air at Kyne’s mercy, the black fold was tearing the burning skies apart above the Moldering ruins. So there was a camp here now. The wind blew through the red fields, carrying various scents on its breeze. Shutting his eyes, Vilkas started to decrypt the odours that lay in the air. Men. Dogs. No. Yes? Yes. Dogs. Red flowers. Venison. Smoke. Fire. Burnt flesh. Blood.
He opened his eyes. Blood. The beast yapped inside. Blood. Yes, blood. Oh, how he wanted to unleash his inner self! To run on the burned grass, to go and see and lap up the blood! To hunt the preys, to tear their flesh with his claws and fangs then to howl to the moons along a pack of wild wolves as the children of the night they were... But he couldn’t. Skjoll was there. And Skjoll didn’t know about what Vilkas was. No, he couldn’t do that. The beast will wait until the next moon. Then the beast will be.
But now, he had to think to something else, or his blood will break his skin and the beast will be unleashed. The Moldering ruins were a bit far from them now and the wind dragged a hint of magicka in its race. Vilkas’s eyes went to his shield-brother. It had been more than an hour that their last words were exchanged.
“Hey Skjoll...” called out Vilkas. “Can I ask you a question?”
Pulled out from his thoughts, Skjoll turned his eyes on him, a bit surprised.
“Yes. Of course you can.” He answered after a moment, settling his eyes on the paved road again.
Vilkas remained quiet for some minutes. Maybe his question was stupid. Wasn’t he being too curious by asking this? And if - Oh, to Oblivion the doubts.
“Why do you hate magicka so much?...Skjoll?”
His comrade had stopped.
“Why did you stop Skjoll?”
“What is this?”
The remains of what had to be a carriage were resting on the side of the road. The wood was burned as if it had been taken in an explosion. But it wasn’t that thing that caught Vilkas attention, no. It was the kneeling black form leant over the body of a man, a hundred meters away from them. And the smell of blood surrounding them.
*