Inheritance Chapter Three Options

[Zarrexaij]

I'll get some more comin' soon. Y'all just sit here and wait as I post more stuff. I won't edit this post to add more, though. I'll just post it.

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Inheritance
Chapter Three: Bark and Bite

Zarrexaij had just entered the famed meadhall of Thirsk when he had heard the guttural, accent-rich voice of a Nord barbarian.

“I heard from Isralla th’ other day there’s a werewolf runnin’ ‘round here. She said the wolf was unusual. He had jet black fuir and was ‘bout twice the size of a normal werwolf. She saw its shadow at the highest peak of Moesring Mountain barkin’ and howlin’ at the full moon. Somehow, the unholy beast saw her, and slid down the mountain sides t’wards her. Isralla reported that it seemed unusually intelligent... and, well... insane. Said it made strange sounds that sounded like laughter. Then, it disappeared into the night. That’s a bad sign. If it’s any smarter than the average werewolf, we have trouble on our hands.”

Zarrexaij was tempted to flee the place. He was a newcomer, and suspected they would find him a bit suspicious. Afterall, he was pretty damn tall, and his scales were darker than ebony. But... they couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t ever know the truth. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly closed the meadhall’s doors and stepped towards the group of Nords. They turned towards him, and were shocked to see such an unusual creature so far up north.

“What are ye, an overgrown Argonian?” the first one, a tubby, dirty blond headed male Nord interrogated him, cocking his broad head at the half-Rapthyr. Zarrexaij calmly, too calmly, answered, “No. I am a half-Black Rapthyr.” A second Nord, a tall strawberry blond with a little bit of facial hair, lifted an eyebrow.

“Ne’er heard of such a thing.” Zarrexaij laughed. He wasn’t surprised at all. Not that he thought they were completely incompetant, it was just that Black Rapthyrs were a dying breed. With an offended look on his face, the second Nord then riposted, “What’s so funny, eh?” Zarrexaij looked at him square in his blue-gray eyes. “I’m not surprised that you have not heard of the Black Rapthyrs before,” Zarrexaij replied ,“I just find it amusing. I apologize.” The Nord gave him a slow, pensive nod. The Nord’s eyes darted around for a few minutes before asking the bundled-up Rapthyr, or, rather, half-Rapthyr, another question. “What brings ye up this far, half... Rapthyr?” Zarrexaij thought for a second. Why was he here? Oh, that’s right. “I’m up here because,” Zarrexaij paused, gathering his scattered thoughts together in an organized way, “I like the forests and snow. It’s a bit of a ‘vacation’ for me. This place reminds me of Blacklight with the snow and all.” He chuckled heartedly, smiling at the memories that were more than five hundred years old.

“Oh, ye are from mainland Morrowind? Interestin’,” the Nord said it sincerely, swallowing saliva in his throat and causing his larynx to bob a little. The half-Rapthyr obsessively smoothed out his thick robe he bought from a trader in Khuul. Supposedly, it was made from furs of wolves. He thought the robe was a little... soft to be wolf fur. “I take it you don’t get much action up here? You Nords seem a bit bored,” Zarrexaij spoke loudly. His oddly beautiful voice jingled in the room as bells. The Nord gave him a half smile, “Not much. We drink. We be merry. Occasionally, we get a werewolf sightin’ or two back near the Moestring Mountains. I think it has to due with the Bloodmoon. So many bad omens have appeared here and there. It’s worryin’. Now, all we need is some damned witches and we’ll be complete.” The Nord chortled nervously. It was almost as if they were suffering greatly. They probably needed a good laugh.

This all happened a few weeks later when Zarrexaij had noticed something odd about the moons. It just so happened he was, unbeknowst to himself, about to be a part of something important again

[Zarrexaij]

Zarrexaij was woken up in his abode of Bal Isra by a loud crash.

He cursed loudly, hoping out of his oh-so-comfortable bed in nothing but a loincloth. He grabbed his enchanted silver claymore. The noise sounded like it had came from the front door. Why in the name of Sheogorath does this have to happen when the guards are asleep in their barracks? The lanky, muscular half-Black Rapthyr tip-toed in the hallway. He didn't want to startle whatever the hell had paid visit to his abode. Slowly, he strafed towards the den area, and nearly had a brain anuerysm and a coma at the same time.

Right in front of him was a werewolf. Of all things, a damned werewolf. He thought he had left them behind on the mainland, but, nooooo! something had to follow him along, besides his past. It looked at him with its dull, yellow, stupid eyes. Zarrexaij hissed audibly, holding the claymore above his head, ready to strike. "STUPID FETCHER! I'll teach ya to intrude on my property, you damned beast!" he shouted boisteriously, enraged. Veins popped out on his neck and on his head. The pale lanterns he called eyes light up with an unearthly, angry glow. The fangs of Zarrexaij glittered faintly in the light. The werewolf growled gutterally, lowering itself to pounce on the half-Rapthyr.

Zarrexaij sneered, swinging the sword as it was suspended briefly in the air. It fell limply to his feet. Blood was now sprayed onto the cold floor and his expensive rugs. Dammit! Those were his best damned rugs. He was going to skin this dead werewolf. Grabbing the now-dead, still warm werewolf by the neck, he looked at it gingerly. So, the rumours were wrong? Werewolves were supposed to revert back to humanoid form when dead, or so he was told. The Redoran noble snorted. But, then something strange happened.

"A little quick to lash out violently, are we, mortal? You annoyed me before, and now I hold you in high contempt. For that, you must pay."

Zarrexaij's pallid, off-white blue eyes filled with dread and bewilderment. Oh boy. He must have really pissed off Hircine. In his pondering, the werewolf's eyes seem to have come back to life. Zarrexaij was paralyzed with fear as the thing bit into his muscular arm before dying once more. The half-Rapthyr yelped, his deep, sensual voice filling the entire stronghold. A sinister laughter filled his head.

"I think you'll understand lycanthropy from now on."

The noble stood there, dumbfounded, his sword at his side and his left hand clutching the gaping wound of his right. It was gradually healing, but it hurt. Had he really been infected? If he was, it would take three days to find out. He could only hope that he had been lucky. He was half-Rapthyr, afterall. His father should have at least given him immunity... or so he would think. Then again, his father wasn't a very nice guy, or normal for that matter.

He sat there, bleeding for two minutes straight when the guards had lazily come to his 'rescue.'