Thread: A Necromancer's Illusion ((Elder Scrolls, Charlie_Death & Shikokudarkstar))

There were many things a mercenary was needed for in the land of Skyrim. Jarls of all kinds had problems that they did not wish to send their own men out on. Bandits, Necromancers and all sorts of rogues were often the types that caused issues for the different holds. Most mercenaries started their work close to home and worked their way out, Shavir was no different. He had started from Morthal fifteen winters ago on his journey to be the best damn mercenary out there. So far he had been sent on many a quest that a normal man would be slain by. It didnt hurt that he was a lycanthrope and it didnt help him any that he was an odd mixture of three seemingly unrelated races. His mixed heritage was the reason he fought so hard. He wanted to win honor for his mixed father and his full-blooded mother. He was so sick of them being looked upon as abominations. Joining up with the companions had been an easy choice once he had heard of the honor to be had. Clawing his way to the top had been rough work but now he was looked upon as one of the secondary leaders to the pack. Even with his high status and his name in such high regard among his peers, it wasnt enough. Shavir needed those who wounded his family to see how much better he was than them. How he, as a mixed blood was so much more than they could ever be. It was why he chose missions like these, missions that no man had ever come back from. This time he was sent out to take down a ring of notorious mix of necromancers and bandits. They had been killing people and stealing the bodies. Pulling off his hood, Shavir stared at the entrance of the ancient fortress. Could no villain be original? It had taken only a day to get here on a hard run. This wasnt exactly a secure location. Shavir had no issue getting into the building. A mercenary such as him had no issue slaughtering those who had broken the law before him until the blood of the beast overcame his vision. The wolf in his body reveled in the blood bath before him, transforming until the beast had been fully unleashed. Bodies piled up, and the rage only seemed to flood higher until he caught a scent. Even among all this blood and death he smelled the scent of home. The scent of the woodland. Following the scent like a hound on a trail, the werewolf left the gory aftermath of his battle down into the depths of the broken fortress. It was there he found the scent he was looking for, slamming the offending door that kept him from the person who wore that scent. The wolf recede back into his body, allowing his appearance to appear human again. Pulling a bastard sword from one of the corpses, the amber eyes flashed as he inspected the man before him. An elf. Not one of his mothers people, if it had been there would have been blood spilt. No High elf wanted to look at something that was a mixture of them as well as Nord and Khajiit. To them, Shavir was an abomination. He was an insult. That disloyality to his mother often put him into a blood rage farther. This wonderful smelling man was something else entirely. The leopard-like tail swung behind him like a whip, those keen eyes focused entirely on this wonder before him even while he bared his fangs. Wood Elf. This was a Wood Elf. Slamming the sword down onto the table, Shavir growled, blonde hair wild with battle. This was probably a man who needed to be slain. No matter what he smelled like.