The Adventures of Farkas the Dragonborn

A snarky story of Farkas and his journey through Skyrim with... himself. Warning: This blog contains Farkas.

"A Farkasborn is a rare individual who has been born with the blood and soul of a Farkas, but the body of a mortal, and can naturally learn and speak their ancient and powerful tongue. Farkasborn scarcely exist and it is rare for more than one to appear within an era..." - fix'd from TES Wikia

------------------------------------------------------- A/N: [Text written between brackets] Owned and maintained by Sephirona. -------------------------------------------------------
[Reblog, don't repost, please!]
chapter 3: beastblood.

When Farkas woke the next morning, his brother’s look of disgruntled displeasure was several degrees more severe than usual. “You should not drink so much mead at once, brother,” he chastised. “It is not good to let the whelps see you drunk…and undressed.” Farkas was confused but his brother was as smart as Ysgramor and therefore was probably right. He also had a massive headache for some reason and so didn’t feel up to arguing about it anyway. Farkas rubbed his forehead in an attempt to sooth the ache, but only succeeded in smearing around several days worth of accumulated dirt and warpaint into different locations on his face. Such it is with hangovers.

Farkas located his armor strewn about the mead hall and put it on. He found himself sitting at a table munching on some bread, and told himself to talk to Skjor, who had been looking for him. When he found Skjor, he was told to come to the Underforge after nightfall, where he would be given a gift. Farkas was excited. He loved presents.

When he entered the Underforge that night, Skjor told him Aela was waiting and motioned towards her. Farkas thought she looked a bit hairier than usual but chose to say nothing because she was bigger than he was at the moment and it wouldn’t have been smart. Farkas may not be the brightest of people, but let it not be said that he doesn’t have a great sense of instinct.

Skjor sliced her arm open and she bled into the basin in the center of the room. Skjor said if he drank it, he could become “as big and scary as a wild beast”. Farkas misheard him and thought he said “big and hairy”. He liked being big and he was already very hairy, so it was all the same to him. He drank the blood.

He didn’t really remember what happened afterwards, but the next thing he knew, he was naked and Aela was congratulating him on his first time. The possible implications of such a statement in such circumstances flew over Farkas’ head, as does many things when one is not skilled with language.

She then told him he’d been even more intense than Farkas at his first transformation. He was more intense than he was before, then? Apparently. Again, the stream of possible implications (incidentally, typed in neat white text) sailed over his head, much like misfired arrows.

He noted his state of undress and decided being a Werewolf was a lot like being drunk.

He then noticed that he was able to smell prey in ways he’d never been able to before, and followed his nose back to Jorrvaskr, where he removed a few of Auntie Tilma’s (“Farkas dear, I think you’ve forgotten your clothes again”) freshly baked and very pleasantly fragrant sweetrolls from the food chain in the name of Ysgramor and then went to sleep.

The End.