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a****l URGES

I Awakening

Upon awakening, my first sensation was of nausea. The difference, from the prior three occasions, only manifest in degree. Yet I did not have to open my eyes to know that, as before, I lay naked and covered in blood – hardly any my own – that was largely dried, especially around my face; eyes crusted shut, mouth tasting of blood, vomit, and I-dared-not-think what else. Not to mention the other vile bodily excretions in which I lay.

Despite my being largely u*********s of how I came to be in this exact state, now for the fourth time, I was obscurely pleased to note that on this occasion I had retained adequate mental faculties to ensure I returned whence I had left my armour and weapons – conveniently near a source of water to cleanse the filth from my body. That part of my pre-planning, at least, had succeeded.

As my other senses gradually returned, I became aware of the sibilance of nearby running water, to which I half-blindly crawled. Evidently, however, I had not lost consciousness on a gentle beach, for the shock of frigid water abruptly replaced the alarming sensation of falling. The luck of Sai being somewhat with me, the river was neither deep nor swift, but the slimy rocks prohibited decent footing as I flailed to the surface, sputtering and clawing at my eyes to open them enow to orient myself.

The shore was indeed an uneven wall of sharp rock, seemingly with no place of egress. I began shivering uncontrollably, intensifying the aches in my joints, especially – unsurprising, given that I had just endured the transformation from human to a****l and back again in but a few turns of the hourglass. I managed to find a break in the jagged wall, enow that I could find purchase to drag myself over the slick edge and on to the clammy surface. Catching my ragged breath, I paused a moment, fighting the nausea that threatened to spew forth yet again. At least I was relatively clean.

The cold penetrating my bare skin induced me to move, thus I left the rocky shore for the slightly less discomfiting brush, commencing the search for my gear. Soon covered in scratches and yet more fresh blood, I gingerly fought the surrounding scrub in my nakedness, trying to discern whence I may have stashed my effects. Frustration mounting, I returned to a spot that, despite being at first repulsed by the smell, I was somehow instinctively drawn: a mound of leaves and detritus beneath a large oak. I tried to hold my breath as I dug through the pungent odour of (I somehow knew) my own urine, to find the stashed gear. Despite it doubtless being similarly fragranced, I donned it, making a fuzzy mental note to wrap it in leather or something next time, as well as to try to find a more accessible spot near water.

I knew why I had to make these nightly preparations; it had been my own choice, after all – a choice I was coming to regret. Nonetheless, I had been under no duress at the time; I had voluntarily drunk of Aela’s freely given blood four nights past in the Underforge, receiving the taint of lycanthropy into my own body.

Some of the Companions – the order of warriors in Whiterun that had recently admitted me – such as Kodlak Whitemane, their Harbinger, or leader, considered it a curse, and sought to rid themselves of the ‘taint’. Others – Aela, primarily – considered it a gift to be exploited to the fullest. She had made it seem so attractive: to be stronger, faster; to experience the hunt and battle, not to mention sex, more intensely than any human could; in short, to be more alive! I remembered being overcome by lust as we laid together that night, plummeting utterly into her intense green eyes as she urged acceptance of her other gift. I found myself recalling, moreover, my wonder at how it could get any better.

I now knew it was all true.

II Primal Urge

Six nights ago…

“It could be better than this,” Aela assured me huskily.

I lay beside the milky-skinned Nord, exhausted, fur coverings thrown aside, allowing the night to cool my dark, sweat-sheened skin inside the benighted tent. I withdrew a bare leg from across hers, moved her arm from my heaving stomach; further contact was too intense just now. Yet, she hardly seemed fatigued, her breathing barely quickened. I could not believe it – after what we had just done?

“H-How?” I demanded, which she took as a response to her query. The odours of sex and sweat-drenched furs pervaded the interior, along with the pungency of smoke from the single brazier that afforded poor reddish light and too much heat.

“Perhaps you noticed that I am barely started with you.” She half-rose, flicked both my nipples simultaneously with her fingers, followed by a swift lick and a nip to each, causing me to start and cry out.

“N-No… more!” I attempted to deflect her lips contacting mine. “I n-need… some time.” I was almost ashamed; after all, I was supposedly Dragonborn.

“That is what I mean,” she growled, rolling fully astraddle me and pinning my arms to the fur mats. “You would not, were you to accept my gift.” I had neither time nor senses to ponder her double meaning further.

She was, I had to admit, incredibly strong. No milk-drinking female myself – a Redguard warrior by My Father’s Name – yet she had no trouble imposing her carnal will on me, licking and biting around my over-sensitive dark areolas and elsewhere as I struggled beneath her. She emitted another guttural rumble as my exertions only seemed to inflame her – without doubt, they did, for she began to grind her sex against my still-heaving stomach. I glanced down; the contrast of her white skin against my duskiness was thrilling.

“N-No,” I whimpered again; but I stilled, surrendering, once more aroused in spite of myself.

“Very well.” The lithe, auburn-haired Huntress abruptly rolled off, laid beside me once more. “When you are ready.”

All at once, I felt an inexplicable sense of loss. I looked at her pale face; obscured as it was by three diagonal slashes of purplish war paint, I could not discern her expression in the feeble light, and her eyes appeared closed. Nonetheless, I had the feeling her meaning was still double; she was not simply referring to the sex.

“What do you mean?”

Again rising to all fours, she crawled over my lower half, threw the tent flap aside. The frigid night wind rapidly cooled and cleared the interior; a shaft of roseate moonlight penetrated the shadows. Yet, despite the insufficient light, I had a perfect view of her hindquarters not an arm’s length away; undoubtedly, she knew just what she was doing, as her furry cleft glistened at me. Stretching on all fours, back bowed like a cat (or dog), she took a deep breath of the night, wiggled her posterior at me. I caught myself reaching for her, but my curiosity at her dual meaning stayed my hands, delving instead toward my own moistness. A sharp intake of breath and I removed my hand; still too soon.

I could have sworn by the Blade I heard another a****l rumble from the redhead before she replied with her own question, speaking into the night: “Do you really wish to know?”

For some reason – instinct? – I hesitated. “Y-Yes.”

“You do not sound certain.” She stretched again, the muscles along her back, buttocks, thighs, calves rippling in the muted glow. I had an inexplicable vision of a bushy tail switching back-and-forth, maddeningly obscuring, and then revealing, her sex. This time I could not resist, and I heard the growl as I grabbed for a buttock with one hand, cupped her genitals with the other, delved with a digit or two. Whirling on me, teeth bared in a feral grin, yellow eyes glowing (had they not been green just moments ago?), the Huntress leapt atop me, pinning me once more. This time I did not resist the tongue-bath around my ears, neck, and face, followed by a fierce kiss upon my bruised lips. Still squirming, this time with pleasure, I completely forgot my question as she proceeded to my full breasts and ever lower…

Later that night I partook of her other gift in the Underforge.

What Aela had not mentioned was the killing; indeed, the hunger, to kill, in order to satiate the murderous, all-consuming rage. The rage that never abated, was only briefly gratified by intense bouts of lovemaking, hunting, or even deadly combat versus other humanoids. Nor had she mentioned the inability to sleep, the restlessness that drove one, every night, to either toss restlessly or else seek transformation into one’s b**st-form, and hunt; and eat – but not just anything.

As I had learned on that first night, simply slaughtering game a****ls and gorging oneself on them raw, would not suffice. Not even predators, such as the sabrecat somewhat anon, had sated me. I had simply assumed, then, the reason I had been sickened was that I had eaten them raw (entrails and all). Nevertheless, I did not want to reflect on how I came to realise the horrific truth, and what it meant…

III b**st Mind

Five nights ago...

Through a red haze of frenzy, pain, and sickness, I somehow came upon the recent kill of another predator. My own slaughter and violent consumption of a fox, rabbit, and most of a deer, had not sated me; indeed, I had disgorged virtually all that I had consumed of them. Yet, I was certain that eating these ill-fated victims would as nothing else – as vile as that thought was to the still-human fragment of my crazed mind. So, fighting the compulsion, I approached, slavering, on all fours – and was almost relieved when the explosive roar of the sabrecat slammed into me moments before its massive body. I relished the lethal battle to claim its kills.

Had I been in human form even in full armour, the huge feline would have knocked me sprawling, stunned. Yet my lupine self brushed aside the pain, the blinding rage instead taking over as I leapt to counterattack. I sprang to my haunches, ripped at the giant predator, talons slashing its flanks as it lunged. It circled, sword-length incisors gnashing for my throat as its claws tore my thigh and torso. I dodged, knocking its head aside with one incredibly strengthened forearm, raked it again, opening more deep gashes along its muzzle with the other. It roared again, part in challenge, partly in pain; I answered, which appeared to give it brief pause; it lost its footing on a precipice of rock, slid over the edge. I leapt after it.

Despite the a****l outweighing me considerably still, I managed to land on it, clung to its back. It rolled, slashed at me with all fours. Whilst I ignored the pain of its defensive fury, my talons tore and sought purchase in its flesh. It roared again as I gnashed at its throat, a sound that became strangled as I bit deeper, seeking its life force as we tumbled and fought in the darkness. Each savaging the other, dirt and stones spewed everywhere about the hillside. As I suddenly felt a warm gush, the cat thrashed, its growls gradually choking off liquidly as it stilled and gave a last spasm, claws releasing from my back and shoulders.

I swallowed the warm salty fluid flooding my throat, lapped the rest, ripped further at the throat, seeking more; relishing the victory as, even in b**st form and through intense pain, I shuddered in near-orgasmic delight. However, it was not enow. The hunger remained, though I sought to sate it further by slashing into the warm belly of the sabrecat, spilling its entrails and consuming its heart in a few crude bites. Instinctively, I knew this was what I craved – and yet not.

My b**st mind turned toward the two mauled corpses that lay in the back of the shallow cave somewhere above, even as my lupine body led me thence. Almost all humanity suppressed, I tore at the woman and then the man, shredding remnants of clothing, ripping apart ribs to get at the cold hearts within, treating them both as had I their killer moments before.

I awoke to a cold, weak sun already drying the dirt-encrusted blood all over my naked frame; pebbles, bones, and other detritus clung to me as I frantically clawed at my eyes, trying to relieve my near-blindness and orient myself as to where – and what – I was. The pain was still there, through greatly diminished. I lay for the nonce, both relishing it and wishing it away.

Appalled at where (and how) I found myself, I did not want to believe what my blurry eyes and memory told me. I was a werewolf, but I had not contemplated all that meant. Must I actually eat humanoids – or their hearts, in particular? The pain had not been mitigated until I had done that very thing; only now did I feel almost good, the best – aside from my filthy condition – since I had partaken of Aela’s blood. Thus, was I now obliged to rely upon chance encounters with the corpses of human-kin killed by predators? That seemed an accident unlikely to be relied upon for sustenance. Regardless, I somehow knew even that would not be enow, yet I still refused to acknowledge the alternative.

Somehow, as Azura’s star gave way to daylight, I made my way back to our tent whence Vilja and Lydia awaited me in slumber. Myriad thoughts assailed me, almost keeping my mind from vigilance against predators or, perhaps worse, humans whom may espy me and wonder at my naked and bloodied condition, and seek to take advantage. I do not remember how I managed to bathe in the frigid stream nearby and crawl, shivering, into my sleeping fur without disturbing either of my companions.

Vilja lay in her own bedroll, snoring softly, a modest pale breast with its ever-erect nipple poking saucily at me through her almost sheer white nightgown. The sight instantly touched off another kind of hunger in me, but I could not satisfy it just now. Instead, I pretended to awake with them a short time later, wondering how long I would have to keep up this deception.

The second night was worse, only better.

IV Questions

Four nights ago…

In our camp outside Fort Amol, my craving undeniable, I fidgeted the early night away, nervously rising from my bedroll in the tent to pace and dawdle outside by the campfire, and back again. Vilja, Lydia, and I had cleared the stronghold of its evil conjurors earlier that day, and I had only to await my companions going to sleep before I could scavenge the remains. I was partly sickened, partly seething with anticipation; I squirmed in my bedroll, unable to assuage the yearning. Although I felt it most acutely in my innards, my female parts were inflamed as well, my nipples swollen and over-sensitive, sex moist and tender even though I knew it had little to do with sex. Furthermore, despite my keen awareness of my two comrades, I would acquire no solace from either (or even both) that way.

In any case, I was almost certain that Lydia was not inclined toward other females, and as for Vilja, I was unsure; I suspected she would be receptive, eventually, but I had yet to build adequate trust between us to broach the subject. I was assisting her as she sought the whereabouts of a stolen, purportedly magical, flute, as well as something to do with investigating the mysterious contents of a magic bottle that I had helped her recover but a few days ago, a short time after meeting her.

I decided the time was right to slip outside and, nude, make my way carefully in the dark away from the tethered horses and into the night. I willed the shapechange, and in heartbeats, I was a b**st. The rest I do not care to remember, other than it was still not enow; the bodies were cold, unfulfilling.

Thus, I returned, my savagery unmitigated – perchance even worsened out of frustration –managing again (or so I thought) to remain undetected as I slid, shaking with cold and fury, back inside my bedroll.

“Where do you go at night?” Vilja asked me as she distributed bread, ale, and goat cheese later that morning.

I sensed Lydia studying me surreptitiously as she ate; doubtless, she wanted to pose the same question but dared not, as I was her thane.

“To the bushes.” It was partially true, to void the indigestible remains of my meals from either end.

“For so many turns of the ’glass?”

“Do you lie awake timing me with an hourglass?” I demanded, suddenly angry. “What do you care how long I spend behind the bushes?” I stood, hurling the remains of my unwanted breakfast – it turned my stomach anyway – into the campfire. “Strike the camp – we’re leaving now!”

“I’m sorry I upset you – or questioned you,” Vilja apologised a little later as we rode up the Throat of the World to High Hrothgar. Fine snow swirled about us in a bitter wind, frosting her fur mantle, long eyelashes, and the blonde hair not quite tucked inside. Her beautiful Nordic features displayed anxiety. “It’s just that I worry about you. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

I was unsure whether to be flattered or even angrier.

“I’ll not speak of it any more, if you wish.”

“I wish,” I snapped, heeling my mount away from her. That was the first time the thought of how she might taste – her heart, that is – prickled in my mind, which distressed me and caused me to express my anxiety for my travel mates as even more anger, contrarily directed towards the very objects of my concern.

The purported 7,000 steps up the peak to the abode of the Greybeards was perhaps decidedly less on horseback – but, being no pilgrim, I had no compunction about ‘cheating’, as one or two of the locals around Ivarstead grumbled when they saw that we intended to ride up to investigate my summons for supposedly being ‘Dragonborn’.

I did not yet know what that meant, beyond a few myths about supposedly being of ‘dragon blood’ (surely not in a literal sense) and able to absorb dragon souls and to Shout, in their ancient language, using Words of Power. Certainly, I had already slain several dragons, and I had sensed something each time, as their skin and flesh melted away in a fiery tumult about me that left aught but a few scales, bones, and myself untouched. Untouched, that is, aside from the feeling of some kind of power and knowledge burgeoning inside me that I sensed had yet to be unlocked fully.

Thus, this trek up the Throat of the World. I had already learned a few Words – one being Fus, which staggered opponents – but, again, I knew that I had but sc****d a patina of rust from the sword, as it were. I would learn more from the Greybeards, and they would set me on yet another series of quests – but I digress.

V High and Low Places

A few nights ago…

I return to my tale, relating what betided over the next few nights of my hunger.

Having ridden up the 7,000 steps in somewhat more than one turn of the ’glass, I spent two agonising nights with the Greybeards, learning what they were willing to teach me. Though the descent took a little less time than the climb, it was already well dark, and so we took separate rooms in Ivarstead at the Vilemyr Inn, myself in one, Vilja and Lydia in another.

While Lydia is my housecarl – my being Thane of Whiterun – I had assigned her to watch over Vilja, to which she reluctantly agreed some days ago. Thus, it was relatively easy for me to slip out into the night.

I was so restless I felt ill; my head twice its size, so that it surely must burst my helmet – which made it doubly a relief when I was able to shed all my armour other gear and stash it some distance away, including my smallclothes, lest they be shredded upon my transformation anyway. I further suffered from starvation, as I could not eat real food, and I am certain that the Greybeards had known something was amiss, if not precisely what. Lydia and Vilja were doubtless aware of my… distress, so much so that they avoided me; we had spoken hardly a word on the way back down the mountain. Even so, throughout my forced confinement, due to my extreme discomfort I had yet been unable to think of anything beyond my hunger – when I was not in lessons with the Greybeards, at least.

Happily, bandits – not to mention necromancers, witches, cultists, and myriad other miscreants – are liberally strewn about Skyrim. I had also forgotten that there was a civil war seething athwart the land; thus, fresh corpses were almost literally at every crossroads. Even so, I realised that I was once again fortunate to come across a recent battlefield of the war between the Imperial Legion and the rebel Stormcloaks. I had ample bodies to feed upon, and yet this night I was to come to the realisation that scavenging would not suffice.

By instinct, I made my way back through the benighted forest toward Ivarstead, having consumed enow to make up for the last few days of deprivation. Despite the surfeit – or perhaps because of it – I still felt sick and unfulfilled. Nonetheless, one a****l hunger being mostly assuaged and removed from that part of my mind, I was seriously contemplating taking Elda, the Vilemyr whore, up on her unsubtle offer upon my return – “I’ll tire you out for only five septims!” – when my thoughts were interrupted by cries of “Die, monster!” It would seem I had loped easily into a bandit camp. Suddenly assailed on all sides, instinct took over once again.

Nearly all of them fled in panic when I tested my new ability to terrorise with a ferocious roar, and soon more corpses surrounded me, most of which I had to chase down. The last I grabbed from behind with both paws around his neck, dragged him off his feet to face my slavering jaws. His odd plea of “Mercy!” cut off as I popped his head from his shoulders; fountains of blood showered me, most of which I tried to catch and swallow. I ripped one arm off, then the other, followed by each leg, as though I plucked a chicken; further gouts of blood sprayed, each somewhat lessened. I lifted the torso above my head, opened my jaws as wide as I could; bit through insubstantial hide armour, skin, bone, tore at the heart, chewing it from the corpse. The remainder I tossed aside, went looking for the rest.

Thus presented with yet another feast, this time I found the bliss that I sought. As I ripped heart after heart from still-warm flesh and gnawed at them, the fresh blood pouring down my throat, my wounds – some serious – healed much quicker than they had ere now, in either form. I could have swallowed the tidbits whole with no trouble, of course, but I wanted to savour every morsel, to enjoy this. I howled my ecstasy at Masser, the larger of the two moons, out and full red this night. Answered by several of my cousins, I turned toward Ivarstead.

I would now see to my other need.

Perforce, I was reminded of the necessity to pay even more than usual attention to my ablutions, despite my having bathed in the river before donning my stashed clothing (this time carefully wrapped against my ‘marking’ of the spot). As I entered the inn’s common room and strode up to Elda, wresting her from some fool’s lap and snapping, “Time to back up your boast, wench!” she attempted to shake me off.

“You smell like a wet dog!” she retorted. “Get away from me until you bathe.”

Abruptly infuriated, I thought to eat her heart instead of her other parts; advising myself against it, I pulled her along, forcing her to stumble after me. “Then help me, and join me.”

Raucous laughter pursued us, along with the expected hoots and prurient remarks.

As it betided, Elda was all braggadocio, for she most assuredly did not tire me out; the buxom Nord begged mercy as I assaulted her again, furiously rubbing my sex against hers, like two pair of blacksmith’s tongs inserted one into the other. Troll fat, however, made a poor substitute for a woman’s natural juices, I found, as even I was becoming raw, and Elda had all but dried up. She had apparently passed out again, and so I left her, sprawled naked in my bed with a handful of gold coins – far more than she had demanded – as I dressed and emerged to find Lydia and Vilja waiting for me. Ostensibly, they were eating breakfast, but I realised only then that it was near midday, and it now occurred to me that the entire inn must have heard our passions all morning.

The looks I received ranged from the expected studiously neutral, from Lydia, to something like shock and sadness from Vilja. Yet, instead of mild amusement or salacious grins from other patrons, along with exclamations similar to the night prior, the few others present appeared to avoid looking at me, whilst one or two glances that I did manage to catch looked almost… frightened.

Despite a pang of remorse I could not yet have identified, I dismissed all feelings other than how energised I felt, instead bidding my companions, “Let us be off!”

VI The b**st in Me

I controlled my hunger as we camped the next night, although I could no longer avoid thinking about certain realities and posing myself some difficult questions. I fully understood what Aela had meant, and why she was enthusiastic about the life. Now that we had been separated for a time, I was able to mitigate my bedazzlement of the graceful Huntress, but I knew that the b**st in me held certain attractions regardless. It was indeed everything she had promised – yet more. Which was, by Stendarr, the dilemma.

I had not actually killed an innocent humanoid, but then, what defined ‘innocent’? Certainly, ere last night none that I had fed upon had heretofore sought to harm me directly, although any number of them could have, given the chance. Was it simply, then, justification for murder – killing humans, orcs, elves, and other humanoid races – by telling myself they were deserving of death anyway, as bandits and other flotsam whom had either attacked me first or would if they had opportunity? I told myself it was not; it is not wrong to ‘clean up’ bandits and other detritus, especially if one is charged by the local jarl to do just that. It was no different from getting rid of wolves, giants, vampires, or a dragon that also threatened innocent folk.

I especially despised bandits, primarily I suppose because they, unlike wolves and other predators, chose to prey on the weak and innocent. Even vampires were only following their nature, were they not? As did werewolves? The problem was that I knew it was almost inevitable that I would be unable to count on scavenging corpses forever. Then, could I rely on finding a nest of bandits or a coven of necromancers when the hunger became too much? Could I govern the b**st in me? What frightened me the most is that I may do harm to innocent folk or, worse, my compatriots. I very much wanted to ask Aela about it – how she and the rest of the inner Circle restrained themselves from murdering others of the Companions whom were not werewolves, or even innocent Whiterun townsfolk. Nonetheless, for at least two reasons I did not wish to see her again for the nonce. One was that she would, I suspected, not be completely truthful with me, but more so I did not trust myself to be near her and not simply believe anything she wished to tell me regardless.

I stowed my effects near Lake Geir before taking b**st form (the delicious pain!) and loping tirelessly along the Treva River, whence I shortly came upon Treva’s Watch once more. We had scouted it earlier and decided not to attack, as it was already near dark – but I knew, deep down, that my argument against attacking the bandits there and then in human form along with Vilja and Lydia was because I wanted the pleasure – yes, I can admit it – all to myself.

Although they had foolishly left their gates open, I attempted stealth, but was unsuccessful; nonetheless, as I tore into a lookout I learned that my speed precluded any need for stealth. He raised the alarm, yet only two others came at me, with pathetic boasts such as, “I’ll rip you apart!” I slaughtered them all with little trouble, fed, approached the entrance to the keep proper. The still-human measure of my mind very briefly pondered that I seemed able to do certain things as a b**st – for example, open (unlocked) doors – while other ‘normal’ tasks, such as searching for loot and rifling bodies, simply did not even occur to me; my focus as a b**st was the immediate cycle of hunt, kill, feed. Regardless, I knew my friends and I would be back the next day, when we could ransack the place at leisure.

What I did not count on was my travel mates’ reactions – or, for that matter, my own.

“Mother of the Ice!” hissed Lydia, as we rode through the entrance.

Our mounts, halting abruptly just inside, began exhibiting a collective desire to flee the horrific scene. I had not noted the carnage I left behind the night before; the three corpses were in almost identical positions: on their backs with their chests torn open, contents strewn about. I made a mental note to tear the bodies apart next time, as I had the last one I caught two nights past, which should prevent any such diagnosis.

Vilja, a degree paler, if that were possible, gasped. “Oh… Oh, no. They… look like… like they’ve been eaten!” She appeared to be swallowing her bile. “And this one – where is her head?”

For some reason I was disturbed more by her response than anything else – for example, the fact that I was responsible for the butchery – as the blonde had not displayed any squeamishness thus far in our adventures, in spite of encountering, perhaps even inflicting, much worse.

I shrugged off her observation. “Probably wolves. Let us take the horses outside anyway, and you can stay with them if you wish.”

She refused, but I should have insisted. The interior of the fort was worse, and of course, no one would believe that ‘wolves’, or any other predator, could have gotten inside and done the same thing to those half-dozen-or-so bodies, one of whose face was virtually gone, as if peeled off (I vaguely recalled sitting atop someone and ‘slapping’ them with both clawed hands). Thus, Vilja was not able to continue looting, and I trow that even Lydia was grateful, for once, that I had assigned her to the other Nord girl and thus had excuse to leave as well.

I knew I was in for more disturbed looks, if not questions.

VII Naked Pursuits

We continued in the same mould for many more days, wandering Skyrim and completing quests, before my luck finally ran out, in a manner I had not predicted. Although I had for quite some time now ceased passing out before changing back – whereupon I had heretofore to wake up, orient myself, and find my gear – I was usually no more than a bowshot away from my stash, and almost immediately fully cognisant of myself and my surroundings. I had also been able to plan my near-nightly hunts, so that I did not roam so far that I was not able to make it back near camp and my cache before I resumed human form, which was always involuntary, and dependent upon how much I was able to feed.

However, one night I found myself pursued by a dragon, and so – perhaps instinctively knowing I was likely no match for it alone, but more so because I had no healing potions, magic, and so on – I fled. I know not how long or how far I loped in b**st form ere I suddenly found myself once more human, and realised I was in trouble: Finding oneself completely naked, weaponless, and standing in the middle of a giant’s encampment can generate solemn questions about life’s priorities – but I would have to ponder them anon.

Fortunately, giants seldom attack without provocation; unfortunately, what was most likely to provoke them was coming too near their camps or mammoth livestock. Fortunately, before attacking they tended to make threatening gestures, such as stomping, grunting, roaring, and beating the ground with their huge clubs (apparently mammoth leg bones), just as this one was. All of which gave me the opportunity to flee, albeit not before an observation oddly came to mind that Vilja had made some while back, about having once seen a giant without its loincloth – or ‘loinclothes’, as she had endearingly put it. “That was scary,” she had added.

Thus, despite my predicament – or likely because of it – I was laughing, which caused me to become out of breath much quicker than I normally would have, even in human form. As a werewolf, I could have run half the night – which I almost had, apparently – but again, luckily for me, giants were disinclined to pursue a threat once they had chased it off, unless it had done them harm, and that I was not about to do.

In any case, I was able to stop after a very short sprint – thankfully for my poor bare feet – and, finding myself near an inviting pool, relished the opportunity to relax, catch, my breath, and at least bathe the night’s filth away. I had not counted on the slaughterfish.

Savagely bitten on both legs before I managed to get out of the pool, I retrieved a stick and smashed the two voracious, ugly predators to paste as they tried to attack me even on the shore. I fell to my naked rump in the grass, slumped supine, exhausted. This was not good. Yet, I was still in pain and bleeding, and so I turned to my seldom-used magic to heal myself; at least I did not need anything on my person to be able to cast simple healing spells.

As it betided – again, most fortuitously – I was able to orient myself and found I was only a league or so from camp and safety. Even so, as I reflect on this adventure I should admit that I was quite lucky (again); I could have run into the middle of another bandit camp, this time naked and unarmed; been run down by a pack of wolves or a sabrecat; or any number of similar predicaments, few of which would turn out well.

Ever more to consider, it would seem, as I had further thoughts about my choice.

Although the questions I continued to deflect from my companions were not direct, they were becoming more and more difficult to answer, especially without a blatant lie.

“Tell me honestly,” Vilja enquired one day. “What do you think of my cooking?” Although I replied that I quite liked it – which was the truth – she continued, “Then why do you refuse every time I offer to cook something for you?”

I quickly thought back on the past few weeks, and realised she was probably right. An answer to this would be more problematic without, at best, stretching the truth. “I am just not hungry, I suppose. Or, I have just gotten myself something. Or Lydia did.” I knew my housecarl would not gainsay me; indeed, she avoided looking at me, instead busying herself getting the axe out of her saddlebags and ostensibly going off for firewood.

“That’s not it at all,” Vilja remonstrated. “I think… I think you are lying to me, and I don’t know why. There is something… something wrong, I jest know it.” Her cute Nord accent, and something else, thickened her words.

I looked up from moving large stones into a circle for the campfire. She stood stiffly, still in her form-fitting leather armour, arms folded, crying; I felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach.

“I…” I began feebly, but could not finish.

Yet, it seemed I would not have to, as she turned and fled – though it was not long until circumstance forced the truth from me.

VIII All is Revealed

They were upon us before we realised we were under attack. We had just despatched a cave troll, encountered suddenly as we travelled in the hills along the Darkwater River near Lost Knife Hideout. Our first indication that we could not yet relax were screams from the horses, which had fled as we came upon the troll just as we rounded a bend in the road. Luckily for the horses, the werewolf skinwalkers and a couple of their wolf companions were intent on attacking us, and so our mounts merely bolted farther away as we turned toward the sound of their terror.

Ere I realised what was betiding I had taken on b**st form. I assume it was part instinct, part outrage that my so-called ‘brethren’ would dare attack me, let alone in company with my friends; and so I would show them just what they had taken on. Yet, perhaps they realised they had made a mistake, for as we slew the wolves and one of the skinwalkers immediately, the remaining two fled back across the river. I was in no mood to let them be, although, since my companions were not able to ford the fast-flowing course as quickly as I was in b**st form, I caught and tore apart one and then the other before my friends were able to cross. It was only then that, even as a b**st, I dimly realised what I had done.

Up into the surrounding hills I fled, lest I lose control or my compatriots, not recognising me, attacked. As I could not feed on the skinwalkers or the wolves – or, since doing so would not serve me well – and I was not fortunate enow to stumble upon any corpses, I was thus unable to maintain b**st form for long. Therefore, once more I soon found myself naked and unarmed, as well as wounded, this time across a significant river from my party.

It need be said here that it is nigh impossible to ‘normally’ shape change whilst clothed, let alone in armour; clothing will inevitably be shredded as it is suddenly outgrown, and to do so in full armour would be near suicidal, as most armour will, of course, not ‘shred’. Even if it did, it would soon become expensive to keep replacing. Aela warned me of this on that first night, and so I have since ensured that I am completely unencumbered prior to a hunt. This time, to be sure, I had had no time for any such planning. Thus, I can only attribute my sudden change to the Ring of Hircine I had acquired in a prior quest to kill a werewolf named Sinding, whom, in b**st form, killed a little girl and escaped custody for the crime in Falkreath.

I will not relate that tale, except to say that I chose to spare Sinding and defy the deity Hircine – even though the Father of Manb**sts told me I served him regardless, and bade me keep his ring. In any case, it allows one to take b**st form more than once per day, and so it somehow must allow one to shift out of one’s accoutrements at the same time. Regrettably, it does not do the reverse. Thus, all I recall is that when I slunk back into the camp that Lydia and Vilja had set up on near our recent battle – doubtless not knowing whence I had gone and when I should return – my two companions had gathered up my shed belongings, intact, and stowed them for me.

It was well after dark when I returned. I had been obliged to turn to my magic once again to heal, keep from freezing, and to find my way in the night, not to mention cross the river, which I was able to do using the whirlwind sprint Shout, which moves one in the blink of an eye several man-spans. It cannot compensate for steep terrain, but otherwise it will move one over quite significant gaps or obstacles, such as traps. Or rivers.

Returning to my tale, then, I do not believe that either Lydia or Vilja slumbered as I crept, shivering, into the bedroll they had set out for me in our tent, but I would be unable to avoid their questions – verbal or otherwise – beyond morning, I knew. Thus, somewhat past dawn the next day, I told them I would speak with them both.

Amid the purple morning mists, we sat round the campfire for a stretched silence, aught but its occasional crackle and the rustle of the nearby river to intrude upon the uncomfortable quietude.

“I am a werewolf,” I finally admitted, although I did not suppose it came as any great shock.

Vilja, holding herself stiffly, began to sob, eyes downcast at her boots shuffling nervously in the brown grass. Lydia regarded me warily.

“I… I do not know what more to say,” I added lamely.

“But, w-why?” Vilja cried. “H-How did this happen?”

“I… did it myself.”

“But… why?” the blonde repeated. “Why would you do something like this – become a… a m-monster?”

“‘Monster’?” I countered sharply. “See you a monster before you now?”

“Well, not now, no. But—”

“I am stronger, faster… I can stay up and… run all night. I… I feel more alive, like I can do anything.”

“Anything but sleep and eat like a normal person,” Vilja countered.

“Normal? What is ‘normal’?” I did not know why I was so defensive – or perhaps I did.

Choking back more sobs, the Nord girl shook her head. “No… Shrelle, you cannot possibly like what you are – what you have become.”

“Why not? What would you know about it?”

“I’ll make you a cure diseases potion,” she offered.

“No. It will not work.” That was true, but I had no wish to admit that I did not want a cure.

She looked at me helplessly; something twisted inside me. “Lydia, please,” she entreated the darker Nord. “Help me.”

“I... It is not my place.”

“Yet you have an opinion,” I conjectured.

“Yes, my thane.”

“I bid you give it, then.”

“I… dare not, my thane.”

“Why not? I release you from my service, if that will help.”

She rose. “My thane, I am at your service, to release as you please. If you dismiss me now, I’ll await you at your home in Whiterun. Should you wish still to release me upon your return, that is your right.”

Vilja stood, put a hand on the bigger girl’s steel-clad arm. “No, Lydia. Don’t go. Don’t make her leave, Shrelle.”

I knew enow about Nordic honour that the stigma of dismissal from a thane’s service would be almost unbearable for a housecarl, and I would wish that on no one. Besides, as Vilja observed regularly, I was ‘quite fond of Lydia’.

“I do not give you leave to go, Lydia. Please sit. I would have you thoughts on the matter.”

“I am at your service, my thane.”

“W-Would anyone like a drink?” Vilja interposed. “I’m quite thirsty.” She received no response.

Lydia, clearing her throat, sat squarely upon the log. She appeared to have difficulty swallowing, yet looked at me directly. “I cannot imagine that my thane truly enjoys eating people.”

I all at once felt flushed; my heart raced as a herd of mammoths thundered between my ears. I needs must admit as well that my female parts twitched, demanded contact – and, I concede, it had nothing to do with present company. It took great effort to remain motionless. “I do not enjoy it, exactly,” I dissembled. “I… It is what I must do to heal… to live. And only their hearts,” I added, as if that would make the fact more palatable.

Vilja seized upon it: “Oh, is that all, then? Well, that makes it all right, of course.” She swallowed; appeared to be holding back more than tears.

I had no answer; I could barely look at her.

“You still have not told us why,” she insisted.

“Yes, I did.”

“Oh, it’s so you can…so you can mate all day and night with some tavern wore?”

Precious Vilja; she could not even swear effectually.

“The word you want is whore, dear, or perhaps slattern, strumpet, or harlot. And what we did was tumble – fornicate, rut, or copulate. Or perhaps even ‘make love’.”

“No. It sound to me like mating. There is nothing loving about it.”

I sprang to my feet. “How would you know?” The b**st was nearly upon me.

The other girls must have seen it, as Vilja gasped, eyes flying wide as she fell back off the log; the snick of steel clearing leather as Lydia interposed herself between us.

“My thane! I needs must remind you that you yourself assigned me to protect Vilja, and you haven’t released me from that geas.” As I wrapped both hands around her throat – noting with some horror that my digits were elongating and sprouting fur – I met my housecarl’s gaze; it held no fear, only regret and… resignation, perhaps?

I turned, bolted up the path; this time I noted my accoutrements sloughing away as my b**st form came upon me in the brightening daylight. I was soon loping on all fours, racing through the rough scrub as I tore at any passing forest creature; a rabbit, now a fox; I cared for naught but the rage! I had to kill… something.

IX Return to the Pack

I left my travel-mates for several days; I did not trust myself around other humans. I do not recall how long we were apart, or even where I went, for the most part, except that I gave in and sought Aela. We lay as usual, this time in her room in the living quarters of Jorrvaskr.

“It is never the same with… with anyone else,” I managed, still quivering from my climaxes.

“‘Anyone else’?” the lissome Huntress echoed (this time, I was pleased to note, as out of breath as I). “What do you mean?”

I mistook her query as jealously. “What do you care? I have enow left for you.”

She grabbed the shoulder-length plaits of my sweat-matted, tundra cotton hair, twisted so that I faced her. “Listen to me. Have you mated” –there was that word– “with others– other humans?”

“One or two.” I still did not understand why it mattered to her. “What of it?”

“And what happened?”

Now I thought she was seeking gratuitous detail. “The usual,” I retorted. “She was pleasured – many times. As was I. What does it matter?”

She growled. “Why do you suppose it is so good with me and not any human?”

“I… I do not know. Because you are stronger – you can keep up with me? Let me go!”

She did so, laid down once more beside me. “Pup, you know nothing. That is it exactly, and why you must not mate with a human – unless you are prepared to deal with them afterward.”

I still did not understand, and said so as I half-sat to get a bottle of wine. (I was thankful I could stomach wine, at least, as well as other spirits, although I still could not eat.)

“Give me that.” Ere I had it to my lips, Aela snatched the bottle from me, drained it in a few sloppy gulps.

“Bitch!” I protested, though I knew it would do no good to attempt to wrest it back from her. “That was the last one.”

She belched, tossed the empty aside. “Know your place, pup. Fetch another. And none of that Alto slop, by Frostfire – something decent, like Firebrand or Colovian brandy.”

“I am not your servant – get it yourself!”

She was atop me before I noticed her move, preternaturally strong hands about my throat, yellow eyes glaring into mine, elliptical pupils dilated. “There is much for you to learn, cub,” she rumbled in my face. Curiously, I was unaware of her sex centred upon my stomach this time, for her visage morphed into a snout, fangs abruptly appeared as her jaws opened and she leaned in until my nose was practically down her throat; her breath was humid, smelled of iron and cheap wine. Suddenly, I was sweating more profusely; nonetheless, I sought to fight back.

It was a mistake, of course; I was not yet as strong as the rest of the Circle each on their own, let alone against three of them, as Farkas and Vilkas, along with Aela, sought to put me in my place. For, just as did their fully lupine cousins, werewolves had a strict social hierarchy, and if I had had any illusions that Kodlak Whitemane was solely in charge of the Companions, I now knew whom the dominant female of the pack, and likely leader, was.

Furthermore, if I had thought that sex alone with Aela was incomparable, I was completely unprepared for the ‘lesson’ the twin brothers and the Huntress gave me. I have no doubt that, at certain times during our tryst, we were in b**st form, at other times human – perhaps even, yes, both at once. Yet, it is not coyness that compels me to spare my audience the prurient details; I simply do not remember them clearly, and thus I would deign not make up lies or exaggerate – although, judging later from my sheer exhaustion and sense of gratification, embellishment would not be possible. In any event, I will have another chance later in my tale to describe such an encounter that turned out even better.

As I prepared to leave Whiterun sometime anon, intending to return to Vilja and Lydia, Kodlak Whitemane intercepted me halfway down the long staircase into Whiterun proper from the main doors to Jorrvaskr.

“I would have a word with you, lass.” Out of breath, the old Nord seemed anxious.

“What is it, old man?” I did not dislike the Harbinger, but he had recently lectured me regarding Aela’s and my attempts to wipe out the Silver Hand, the b**st hunter group that was dedicated to killing werewolves, ostensibly for slaying one of our number, Skjor. We had met with some success, even despatching their supposed leader, yet Kodlak believed that we had gone too far, that it would only result in escalating reprisals. Further, I shared Aela’s and the others’ disdain for his desire to ‘cure’ himself. He had told me on more than one occasion that, with blood of the b**st in him, he doubted he could go to his Nordic afterlife of feasting in the halls of Sovngarde with his gods and ancestors, instead of having his soul claimed by Hircine, the god of shape changers and hunters. In fact, Kodlak had already tried to enlist me in removing the curse by seeking the coven of witches that had supposedly laid it upon the Companions some 200 years ago. I had told him I would think about it, although, at the time, I did not intend to do so.

“I wonder if you have thought about my… appeal.”

I was about to answer ‘No’, but something changed my word. “Yes.”

He looked at me expectantly.

“I… have thought about it. I must think on it further.”

“It is just that I feel… time passing, and I wish to go to Sovngarde.”

“I heard you the first time, old—Harbinger.”

I looked into his rheumy grey eyes, wrinkled, sad white-bearded face. He seemed about to say something else, but only managed, “Talos guide you, lass.”

I resumed my rapid descent down the steps, wondering how old one must be to cease appreciating the benefits of being a werewolf. After all, here I was, in full, heavy armour, well-nigh prancing down a long flight of stairs, yet still breathing evenly, even after a full night of—.

All at once, it occurred to me that the question might just have been answered; I did not have to look to know that Kodlak laboured back up whence we had both just come.

It was only then that I realised I had not clarified Aela’s admonishment not to have sex with humans – other humans. Nonetheless, I would soon discover the reasons myself, as my choices became ever clearer.

X Vengeance

Kodlak Whitemane was dead. The Silver Hand audaciously attacked Jorrvaskr, and slew him. Some escaped, and they stole the fragments of Wuuthrad, Ysgramor’s battle-axe – Ysgramor, of course, being the founder of the Companions many centuries ago. Heartsick that I was not there to help defend my shield brothers and sisters, we determined that we would take revenge on them; storm their own stronghold, wipe them out, and recover the pieces of Wuuthrad. Vilkas and I accepted the charge, and I decided it was not the best idea to bring my other friends, thus I left Vilja and Lydia behind in my Whiterun house, Breezehome.

It betided that it was not much of a challenge, and so we shortly returned to Jorrvaskr, whence we attended Kodlak’s funeral. Jarl Balgruuf and other citizens as well as, of course, all the Companions, listened to a eulogy from Eorlund Greymane, the Companions’ smith. Following the service, Eorlund asked me to find the last piece of Wuuthrad that Kodlak had kept near, so that Eorlund could re-forge the weapon. When I did so, I found the Harbinger’s journal, as well; and I admit that I felt almost no guilt as I read it. Aside from noting his wish to be cured of lycanthropy, he made mention that I should become the next Harbinger!

I would keep this to myself for the nonce, as I did not know how the others would react, my being a new Companion and still young, after all – not to mention the… social structure of the Circle that I had already grappled with. Nadja Stonearm, for one, who is not even in the Circle, resented me enow already.

Nonetheless, we needs must travel to Ysgramor’s Tomb, whence the original 500 Companions from ages past lie at rest; there we will be able to complete the ritual that will free Kodlak, posthumously. Even Aela agrees that, as it was his wish, we should seek to fulfill it for him; it is the honourable thing to do.

Eorlund bestowed upon me re-forged Wuuthrad, and with it, we conquered the spirits in Ysgramor’s tomb, Aela, Vilkas, Farkas, and I. Actually, it ended up being only Aela and me at the end, as Vilkas felt unworthy to proceed past the entrance, and would you believe that Farkas is afraid of spiders? Granted, they were giant, frostbite spiders, but still… Nonetheless, when we defeated the last of the ghostly ancient Companions, we met Kodlak’s spirit and cured him, despite the fact that he was dead. He named me Harbinger, and Aela heard him. She did not appear too upset, but I sensed a challenge ahead nonetheless.

“Why do you delay, sister?” Aela demanded. We had returned to the entrance, whence Vilkas and Farkas told us they wanted to remain a while, ‘to look at the carvings’ in the old tomb or some-such. I was reluctant to leave as well, yet I noted that I had apparently graduated from ‘pup’ to ‘sister’, at least. I am certain the Huntress knew what I was contemplating. “No reason – let us go.” The hungry look she bestowed upon me made up my mind; it was all I needed to stay me from returning to the lower chamber and repeating the ritual at that time, freeing myself.

She had me pinned again, this time playfully – or so I hoped. The naked Huntress’ skin shone purplish in the moonlight and by the few smoky braziers surrounding us; full, mauve-tipped breasts hung before my eyes like miniature cousins of the huge orb in the sky silhouetting her. I licked my lips, sought one or the other.

“No, not yet,” Aela growled, moving out of reach of my eager mouth. “Tonight you earn your place, pup.” Back to ‘pup’ again, I thought wryly. “Starting with patience – you must have learned some of that on the hunt. Now be still.”

I decided to obey; she stood, arms akimbo, straddling me, the gap between her legs enticingly backlit by the full moon. It took almost every dram of my will to keep from squirming, never mind grabbing for her.

“Tonight,” she continued, “under Masser, you will show us you are ready to lead. Kodlak thought you were, even though you are young and with us mere months. But we still have our… rituals.”

I quivered in anticipation – and not a little cold in the mountaintop air; I was desert-born, not used to cold, let alone the light snow that swirled about us.

“First, the hunt.” Aela stepped away from my trembling form, strode a ways off; there she stood betwixt the twins, both naked as well, infuriatingly indistinct in the moonlight – even though I knew both of their bodies well enow: broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, virtually covered in dark hair; penises hanging weightily, half-erect at least.

My heart – among other parts – quickened. This was not what I had expected, but it was no disappointment, either.

“Join us, sister,” one of the men rumbled, echoed by the other and the woman.

I did so.

XI Ecstasy

Later that night we returned to the outdoor lair the Circle maintained for our purpose, all four of us sated with blood, having savaged a bandit camp. I omit the details of our hunt partly because it is a red haze in my mind, and partly because it succeeded no differently than myriad other such nights, but mostly to relate the portion of the ‘ritual’ that I recall with clarity, this time.

We kept b**st form for the next segment of the Circle’s leadership rites. Although I am more able to recall details whilst in b**st mind, I will say only that we fought – just short of full earnestness – as well as had sex, ofttimes the twain being indistinguishable. Each of the twins mounted me, as do b**sts. However, there are certain sexual practices that are not possible – or are decidedly dangerous – as an a****l. With fangs and deadly talons, for example, it is somewhat difficult for two females to pleasure one another. Thus, Aela taught me control of my reversion to human form.

All of us glistened with sweat despite the frigid mountain air. We stood in a small circle, panting, still hunched in partial werewolf posture, on a large spread of fur mats in the purplish moonlight. Masser had begun to set as light snow continued to eddy, yet our senses remained sharp, even in the dim amethyst light.

“Now, sister,” Aela growled. “Prepare for your initiation.”

I shivered again.

The Huntress sprang upon me, wrestled me to the furs, pinned me on my back as before. I submitted to the tongue-bath; she began with my ears, eyelids, nose, face; proceeded to my neck, her long pink member tracing wet paths across my tingling dusky skin, the scar along my cheek and chin. Suddenly my toes received the same treatment – the twins! One administered each foot; somehow, they retained perfect simultaneity, proceeding from biggest toe to smallest, then soles – causing me to writhe with ticklishness – followed by heels, calves, and knees, paying special attention to the back of each knee.

Aela progressed down my torso – vexingly – between my breasts toward my rippled stomach, probed into my navel; everywhere a trail of wetness left behind to chill in the breeze. Farkas and Vilkas lapped their way past my yearning centre to treat each finger, hand, and arm likewise, to my shoulders and downy armpits. All the while, the three emitted low, guttural sounds; I began to rumble in response.

Despite my most sensitive parts not yet having been touched, I moaned, convulsed in climax. Agonisingly, they held me down to thrash, helpless whilst they dipped and darted, everywhere but the primary areas. Abruptly, a twin found each of my modest mounds, began to lick and nibble their dark-capped tips. Encircling hands rubbed, squeezed; more fingers caressed thighs, calves, slipped beneath my buttocks. I felt warm breath on my nether lips, a tongue dart here and there, tasting; a wet slash across my slit, then along it, up, then down, fingers roving about my sex. I climaxed once more, crying out my ecstasy.

Aela continued her delicious assault on my cleft with her tongue and fingers whilst the males caressed and pinched, roughly yet caringly; one clutched a handful of my hair, pulling back my head as the other strewed kisses about face and neck. They all switched, I trow, but I lost track of who was doing what; I peaked several more times before I found a hard male member thrusting at my mouth.

Dazed, I quickly came round, sat up, grabbed the large appendage in both hands, thrust it eagerly betwixt my lips for a pull or two, began licking, circling the purple bulbous head, tracing the veins. The twin let out a carnal growl as I continued to lick up and down the shaft, shoved it down my throat until I gagged, repeated. I soon felt another insistent poke in an ear, reached to grasp the other, identical pole, commenced pumping it. Having lain between my spread legs as I rose to my knees to pleasure the men, Aela continued to slurp and probe at my heated slit. I moved from one thick shaft to the other, moaning and growing weak-kneed; I had to have one of the rigid members in my sex, but this was my initiation and I was not in control – or was I?

Instinct – or perhaps mere lust – took over. Maintaining my hold on the turgid members, I dropped to all fours, pushing one behind me whilst the other I dragged back into my mouth. Aela, muttering her own arousal, repositioned herself, kept up her ministrations as a twin entered me. I grunted, cries muffled by the engorged appendage in my mouth. I began to coordinate my pleasure as I pumped with my hand; both began to thrust, and I let go the one in my mouth, now savouring the sensations washing over me as I was pounded at both ends whilst feeling a warm tongue ravishing my filled sheath. All at once, tongue flicking, Aela seized the hard nubbin at the top betwixt her teeth; I jerked again, convulsing in sheer pleasure, once, twice, thrice – I lost count – before collapsing.

I pushed their insistence away. “Get me… a drink,” I demanded. A bottle of Colovian appeared near my sweating face; I slaked my rampant thirst, willed my body to cease twitching and my breathing to slow. Pawing my matted silvery locks from my eyes, I glanced at my shield siblings. With some sense of satisfaction, I noted that they appeared as worn as I did. Aela sat half-erect on an elbow, breathing heavily, one silky leg drawn up, arm d****d over its knee, a bottle of Colovian in the other. In her gaze, I saw more than lust; it was almost quizzical. The twins – still indistinguishable one from the other – lay one on his front, the other supine, pulling on bottles of Honnigbrew mead. Their muscular, darkly hairy bodies yet inflamed me, especially the shaft I saw still half-pointing toward the near-set moon; but their intense, shining yellow gazes I noted most in the lightening sky. Similar to the Huntress, they held a question – a challenge, perhaps, or even a taunt.

We were not done.

A last mouthful from the now empty bottle and I commanded, “On your back, sister,” as I crawled to her. You,” I pointed at one twin with it, “feed her your prick. You, put yours in me.”

My rear held high, legs parted, I delved between the supple, creamy thighs, sucked in a breath through nose and mouth, relished the heady aromas of sex and, yes, even ‘wet dog’. Fingers parting the slick petals, I stuck my tongue into her fissure, began to thrust and poke and nuzzle at the reddish thatch as I felt a twin’s member plunge into my own pulsating crevice. I had difficulty maintaining contact as I was severely rammed; my rhythmic grunts provided counterpoint to Aela’s moans and the twins’ exclamations.

I poured the remainder of the bottle all over her mound, slurping at the amber fluid as it ran through her reddish thatch, over her swollen, rosy nether lips, down the crack of her buttocks. I shoved the bottle neck all the way into her; at least the size of a modest prick, it was little wonder that she yelped, hips rising from the sweat-soaked furs. I jammed it in and out of her as I felt my own urgency building once more; the twin driving into me intensified his efforts. Sensing he was near climax, I released the thrashing Huntress, tossed the bottle aside, whirled to receive the shaft in my mouth. The twin roared his release, the warm, salty substance erupting down my throat, spilling out as I alternately spat and swallowed, coaxing its entirety with both pumping hands.

Climbing atop the woman and under the other thrusting twin, I restrained her in a reversal of her own favoured position, leaned in to lick the veiny m