Right, this is a complete reboot of The Next Quest. Currently, I have this is a two-shot. So tell me if it is any good and I'll continue with this version.

-X-

Torheim Bjornson

Torheim Bjornson's grey eyes shot open, the burning of his lungs and stomach forced the man to chuck his body to the side.

Vomiting wasn't a good experience as it burned your throat, even if it was mostly water. He certainly felt it.

His stomach heaving, the Dragonborn focused on getting his breath back. It wasn't pleasant yet he was determined to retain it, but suddenly he stopped.

The faint crashing sounds of waterfalls, the taste of nature and the familiar air of coldness.

"I'm alive." The Conqueror of Tamriel breathed a sigh of relief, a smile on his lips. "Praise the Gods." He then pushed himself to his feet, circling on the spot.

Torheim saw he was inside a clearing surrounded by a forest filled with fallen autumn leaves, winter grass mixed with cold, hard dirt. Looking further, Torheim could see rivers and streams nearby.

"I was right!" His roar echoed into the forest and he raised his arms in happiness.

His body shook in giddiness, after nearly four decades of sitting behind a desk, signing thousands of papers and having council meetings to make sure Tamriel was running smoothly. Torheim could finally have some freedom, like his old days as an adventurer.

A small breeze passed over him before looking down. "Oh, I'm naked. That might be a problem in meeting people. First clothes." His stomach grumbled in response. "Food first then clothes."

He shuffled before he felt his foot hit something metallic. Looking down, he saw three familiar weapons and smiled.

"At least my best weapons survived the journey."

Two of the weapons, he himself made, from the bones of the dragons he had slain.

A Dragonbone sword, looking similar to the Silver Hand's weapons, except the blade has several 'teeth' shall we say, that make the blade unsymmetrical in the edges. The crossguard, handle, circle pommel and fuller of the blade he made with his knowledge of Daedric blacksmithing, making the areas black with a slight red tint to them. The sword was modeled after his taller than average height, so it was closer to six foot than the normal three and a half feet to four and a half feet in length.

The second was a dragonbone dagger, which just looks like the sword except a smaller version and a more round shape to a point.

The last one was more of an heirloom than the others. A modified Wuuthrad, the Battleaxe of Ysgramor, remade in the Skyforge by Torheim's old friend, Eorlund Grey-Mane. He and Eorlund had melted the axe down alongside the blade Dragonbane and a Dragonbone battleaxe, creating a more powerful axe. In terms of shape, it had a single blade in the style of the Dragonbone but with a black and bone yellow wavy coloured metal and a bright steel colour on the edge of the blade; it still had the elf engraving where the axe met the handle but it also had a screaming dragon on the other side. There was also a long sharp spike with a smaller on underneath it, opposite the axe head. The handle was of the dragonbone battleaxe but had the coverings of Dragonbane all the way up the handle, with the pommel being a small, sharp grey spike.

The entire length of the axe was a large six foot.

Torheim smiled, before picking them up, having the sword and dagger in one hand, the battleaxe in the other. His strength letting him lift the weapons with ease.

The Dragonborn narrowed his eyes before closing them. He focused his senses, his hearing, the taste in the air, the noises. He breathed in, hoping to find scents that resemble either human or animal.

Fur, growls, two of them, north, half a mile.

He smiled. "Bears, that's good. Food and clothing in one package." Turning towards the direction, the Dragonborn sprinted at full speed towards his destination.

His thoughts went back to his family. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, his wife Lydia, and his friend since birth, Erik the Slayer. Both passed on from natural causes, but went peacefully with a smile, the memories of the three of them adventuring and fighting against bandits, wolves, werewolves and daedras could last him a lifetime.

His thoughts engulfed him and before he knew it, Torheim had reached his destination.

The Dragonborn hid behind a small incline and saw them.

Two big, brown bears. The two waiting near a large stream, hoping to catch some fish to eat.

Torheim hummed in thought as he looked around, there was a lot of cover to use, stone and thick trees.

Even if he just caught one, it would be enough for him to keep warm and food to fill his stomach.

One faced his direction, but the Dragonborn snuck to the far side of a thick tree, using the other bear facing away from him as cover, but still giving him an idea where the second bear was.

He stepped out and tensed, his dagger in hand, sword in the other. The Dragon Wuuthrad lying behind the tree.

Taking a moment to think, he found a quick way of killing both.

He raised his dagger, flipping it and gripped the blade with his fingers.

And threw it over the first, towards the second.

A loud thunk was unheard as a loud roar of pain was released from the second bear.

The first bear looked up at the other, a confused sound escaping it.

He charged.

Five feet.

The beast froze, instinct telling of a danger.

Four feet.

The Dragonborn continued to charge, leaves and sticks crunching.

Three Feet.

The bear starts to turn around.

Two feet.

Torheim raised his sword, preparing to jump.

One foot.

Using some of the gift, he jumped as high as he could, a great fifteen feet.

The bear turned around roaring.

Only for it to be cut short as the sword went straight through its skull and out of its throat, killing the beast instantly. It's corpse fell to the side, taking the sword with it.

Looking over to the other beast, Torheim saw it lying on the ground, not moving. The dagger stuck deep in its eye.

"Still got it." Torheim said, proud. However that opened up a thought.

He was old, in his one hundred and fortieth years of age at that. Yet, he could sprint for long periods of time and charge without feeling tired. Even with his gift, he should have felt the pains of old age and yet he felt none.

Pausing at that carriage of thought. Torheim stepped up to the stream and looked at the surface.

"That's impossible." He breathed in disbelief.

He was young again, looking nearly twenty. The flecks of grey in his hair had disappeared, leaving his long hair and full beard completely dark brown once again.

Standing to his full height, a towering, almost unnatural, seven foot five inches. His eyes went down at his body and really looked, unlike before where he just took a glance.

His body even looked younger, fingers now calloused again, though the faint scars he received over a long life of adventure were still there, but the wrinkles that showed on his body were gone. His muscles, which had gone thin from not being used properly, were now back to their full massive size.

"Not a bad side effect of the journey." Torheim said with an easygoing smile. He looked around the forest again. "Now, I've got to find out where I am. The air certainly has that feel of my homeland to it." He took another breath, the familiar feel of his home province always out a smile on the Dragonborn's face.

Looking down, Torheim stared at the dead bears with his stomach growling, wanting food. He sighed. Walking over to collect his dagger and started to skin the bears.

-X-

Torheim dug into the stick skewered bear meat he had cooked, a fire in front of him with more pieces of bear skewed on a stick over the fire.

Coverings of the bear over his legs and feet with wrappings he took from the handle of the Dragonbone Wuuthrad.

Torheim finished eating and looked around. "Now to find the nearest city."

Screaming, metal singing, metal flying, blood, thirty men, twenty women.

The Dragonborn frowned. "Fighting?" He closed his eyes and focused once again.

Women screaming, men roaring with bloodthirsty tones, the swishing of blades, flesh being torn apart, blood in the air, thirty men having disgusting scents, ten women having cleaner scents, three miles northeast.

Torheim shot to his feet. "A raid!" A deep feral growl escape his chest.

Quickly gathering his weapons, he sprinted northeast, the food and the firepit forgotten.

Charging through the forest, Torheim was mentally holding back his gift from fully manifesting, only allowing some of it, making him reach the destination faster.

It didn't feel like three miles to Torheim, but he was used to it, having trained with his gift for years. When he arrived, the Conqueror hid behind a thick collection of shrubbery, carefully putting his weapons down and pushing aside a part of the leaves. A stony beach was in front of him, ten barely held together row boats beached. He saw a large gathering of people near the boats, so he focused his eyes on them.

What he saw almost made him release his gift voluntary.

Thirty men covered in shoddy made furs and leather armour, dragging away rope bound women of various ages, the oldest looking in her mid-twenties, while the youngest was fourteen.

The latter of which made Torheim's control almost non-existent.

A few men and women dead on the stony beach, their blood staining the shore their armour and weapons were fair higher in quality but even the best can be beat when outnumbered.

"Well, lads! Seems we got some good catch today! Weapons and women, more sons and daughters for the tribe!" A Man, the leader the Dragonborn presumed, had yelled to his men, who cheered. His voice hoarse, as if he had trouble speaking. The captive women were all know struggling against their bonds as they, as Torheim, realised what that meant as 'more sons and daughters for the tribe'.

The Dragonborn let go of his control.

He dropped his weapons and stripped naked, and breathed in, reaching deep within his soul and shouted.

STRUN! BAH! QO!

After shouting, he immediately called upon the animal spirit within him.

His bones broke, his flesh and ligaments tore before mending just as quickly. His skull was the worst pain about the transformation for Torheim.

Torheim was a werewolf, more importantly he was Blessed by Hircine even more than a normal werewolf.

The grey clouds above, calm and slow, unnaturally turned violent. A massive downpour suddenly fell onto the stony shore, catching the raiders, even the captive women off-guard.

"Where the fuck did this storm come from?!" The Leader roared out. "We can't row in this! Get those boats further back!"

Just what Torheim wanted.

Lightning and thunder lit up the sky, striking the ground at regular intervals. Several of the raiders started praying, Torheim, now in his werewolf form, could hear the raiders speak.

"Is this the Old Gods?!"

"Are the Old Gods angry?!"

"What the fuck is happening?!"

The mention of these Old Gods didn't register within the mind of Torheim, now that he was in his beast form. The only thing on the Dragonborn's mind was the death of the raiders, not their squeals.

It was when the first lightning bolt struck a raider, he charged.

"What is that?!"

"A demon! A demon!"

The Werewolf leaped and his fangs dug into the neck and face of a raider. Pulling back, flesh and bone were ripped away without effort. The raiders cried out in horror, most stumbling back, some fell to their arses, but all felt death had come for them.

-X-

Alarra Mormont

She was not having a good week, her husband had died five days ago, her son Jeor who was only twenty had become Lord of Bear Island. His grief was obvious and tried to hide it, trying to be the strong leader that Bear Island needed.

And she was pregnant, only half a moon she was told. Her husband was happy but a quick sickness took him away. His body buried in the deep caverns of Mormont Keep.

She was outside, with a collection of five boys and girls trainees with seven guards to protect her.

When they were caught off-guard by an ambush of thirty Wildlings. Now all of her male guards dead, with herself, two girl trainees and three female guards being kidnapped by Wildlings to be raped and to populate their clan.

She struggled of course, as did her fellow women, but they were stronger and so were their ropes. However, this earned them strikes across the face or stomachs leaving bruises.

Alarra felt that she would have to jump into the cold sea when she could, better dead than a baby making worker. The only thing stopping her was the baby currently growing within her womb. She would kill it before it would take its first breath, Alarra couldn't do it and so banished the thoughts of suicide away from her head.

STRUN! BAH! QO!

Everyone froze. The raiders looking around, wondering where the...she didn't know how to describe it, roar maybe? A sense of foreboding took a hold over the raiders she could see, while Alarra was too busy trying to find a way to escape with her fellow Bear Islanders.

The rain that appeared shocked everyone, even the guards and Alarra were surprised, Bear Island normally got snow and grey skies, a savage downpour was rare as a bard coming to the island.

The Raider Leader ordered his men to bring the boats in the rain to heavy and cold to row.

Lightning and thunder decided to grace the island. Bolts struck trees, shore even a few Wildlings without discrimination, thunder echoed like roars of giants and dragons.

"What is that?!"

"Demon!"

"Ahh-urk!"

Alarra gaped in awe and horror. How couldn't she?

It was a wolf and yet the body of a man.

Taller than anything she has seen. Fur was dark as night, amber eyes as if they held fire, claws the size of daggers with pure white fangs and both looking sharper than any blade she has seen, a man's body with a powerful muscular body.

The Wolfman ripped and tore the Wildlings apart, literally.. Guts, bones, blood, heads, arms, legs, torsos, feet. Any and all kinds of body parts were painting the stony northern beach of Bear Island.

She heard all of the young trainees throwing up behind her. Like her, they had froze when the Wolfman charged into the Wildlings.

It was then the lady of Bear Island saw a brave, or stupid, Wildling running at the back of the Wolfman, spear in hand.

"Look out!" Alarra warned before immediately covering her mouth. Why did she try to warn it? It could've turn its attention towards them, she thought.

The Wildling was near the Wolfman and with speed she had never seen, the manbeast swiftly turned around on the spot.

And engulfed the Wildling's head within its maw and simply pulled. Blood sprouted from the man's neck like a waterfall. Its body falling to the ground like a puppet without strings. The Wolfman spat the head out and continued the slaughter.

Even her most veteran guard had started to turn green from the viciousness they were seeing.

Some tried to escape the Wolfman, all were denied before they even got halfway.

The massacre stopped. The storm stopped, letting the calm grey skies to form once again.

It howled. Howled in bloodlust. Howled in victory.

Slowly it turned to the women. The trainees froze, the veterans tensed, experience and survival instinct kicking in.

It walked towards them on two legs, like a human. Alarra shouldn't be surprised, it was half human.

'Maybe that human half has reason.' Alarra thought as it continued to advance towards them.

Deep cracks were heard as its feet touched the beach, crushed stone left in the Wolfman's march.

Lady Mormont gulped, the strength of the Wolfman frightened her. For the sake of the Old Gods, everything about it frightened her!

Looking down, she quickly spotted a sword, blunt and horribly maintained. Alarra swiftly knelt and picked it up, holding to her side.

The move seemed motivated the guards and trainees behind her. They each found some kind of weapon, pieces of armour, stones other poorly maintained blades or spears of the Wildlings.

The Wolfman towered over her, his head turned down to face her. Amber looking into her dark brown, as if staring into her soul.

"Are any of you hurt?" The Wolfman's voice was gruff, it growled out the question as it looked between the Bear Islanders. It shook Alarra's core with every word spoken,

"Y-You can talk?" A trainee stumbled over her words. A young girl of four and ten, whose brother had been murdered by the raiders.

The Wolfman turned to the girl, amusement in its eyes. "Yes girl. I can talk." Alarra then saw it was confused for a moment. "Though I thought my ability to speak was well known."

Now it was their turn to be confused. "What do you mean Wolfman?"

A loud sound escaped the Beastman's mouth, she later realised it was a short laugh. "Ha! That's a new one." He turned to Lady Mormont. "I mean I thought the Empire would already know my beast form and ability to talk."

"Empire? We are not in any Empire that I know of."

The Wolfman cocked its head. "But...aren't we in Skyrim?"

The guards and trainees behind her looked at each other for a moment. One of the guards, Sarra spoke up. "Beastman, we are not in this 'Skyrim' as you call it. But on Bear Island in the North of Westeros."

The Wolfman froze at Sarra's words. "...What?" Alarra noted it looked worried with its eyebrows scrunched together.

Alarra continued for Sarra. "Wolfman, are you not from Westeros? Essos maybe?" She tried to help, after all, the Beastman had saved them from a life of essentially slavery. Finding his home was trivial boon.

It shook its head. "No, I have never heard of these countries. I...I was meant to travel...east…" The Wolfman stumbled through his words, obviously shaken about something.

A trainee spoke up. "East? Did you come from the Sunset Sea?"

Alarra blinked. "Of course." She realised. "You said you went East. Our country had never discovered what is west of Westeros! Maybe you came from there?" Alarra couldn't help but be fascinated, she was standing in front of evidence that there was land in the Sunset Sea.

The Wolfman stopped looking shaken, he turned to face the sea in thought. "I think so, my ship, it was caught in a violent storm that lasted a full month. Maybe it pushed me towards this 'Westeros'."

A month filled storm? Alarra couldn't believe it, the Beastman could be lying about that but she'll give it the benefit of the doubt. It's words and tone did make her believe the Wolfman was from whatever is in the Sunset Sea.

"Well then Wolfman, I need to get back to my home. I would like to ask you to come with us, but I fear you would get attacked when the rest of my people see you."

The Wolfman snorted, his mind now away from his thoughts. "Wouldn't be the first time something like that happened." Whatever Alarra was about to say was stolen from her as she saw the Wolfman change.

Now into something more beast like, but into a man.

He still towered over her, maybe a foot shorter than his Wolfman form, long dark brown hair with a full beard, a burly body. Hair covering his chest, stomach, forearms. She looked down before looking quickly away with a blush.

Yes, hair was everywhere.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her trainees blushing like maidens, but her guards shamelessly leered at him.

Only for Sarra to speak up. "Wait, you just a boy!"

Alarra looked again, though making sure she only looked at his face, and was indeed taken aback. The man did look like a boy, someone hadn't reached his twentieth name day yet.

The Boy-Man once again grew amused. "That's because my gift allows me to age slower. In fact, I'm around forty-and-one hundred years of age." His voice was still deep, but less feral and didn't shake her core when he spoke, but still held power. She could even spot faint scars across his body.

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. Gift? A quick thought brought her to a conclusion. "You're a shapechanger!"

"Is that what you call it in Westeros?" The Boy-Man, she was confused about what to call him, shrugged. "We just call it Lycanthropy or Sanies Lupinus. The ability to change into a were-creature."

Alarra nodded before looking down again, she cleared her throat before walking away, towards Mormont Hold. "Do you have any clothes to wear? I don't want a naked man walking into my home."

"I don't know my Lady, I sure as shit do!" Her best friend, Dacey Snow commented, the Guards all laughed to themselves, the trainees still blushing at the naked Man.

Lady Mormont smiled at what Dacey did, trying to keep the mood happy, they still need to bury their dead with honours befitting their actions.

-X-

Dacey Snow

Dacey Snow took a look at the Shapechanger as the group walked through the forest, pulling along the wagon full of dead trainees and guards along the small route. Two trainees inside, mourning over their brothers that had died defending themselves.

He had walked into a thick shrubbery, coming out with three strange looking weapons. A sword and dagger made of bone and some strange red tinted black metal, and a massive battle-axe that reached six foot she guessed. It was preposterous, looking like an extravagant ornate Valyrian steel weapon.

His clothes were nothing more than bear fur, and they only covered his waist down. The Shapechanger put the weapons in the wagon and simply pulled, after the bodies of the dead were inside, with no effort.

She couldn't believe the strength of the Shapechanger, it was like seeing a living breathing myth from the Age of Heroes. The ability to change shape, strange fantastical weapons and incredible strength. Was his homeland, Skyrim, full of people this strong? She wanted to ask but kept from speaking, unsure if talking more about his homeland would upset him.

"Tell me more about this island?" The Shapechanger asked, his voice not even showing a hint of strain from pulling the filled cart.

Lady Alarra, walking next to the Shapechanger, answered. "Well. Bear Island belongs to House Mormont, of which I am the current Lord's mother." She looked down and held her stomach. "And will soon be mother to another." Lady Mormont continued. "Anyway, we don't have much in the way of riches or a fighting force except for trees and bears, we have those in abundance. House Mormont's family words are 'Here We Stand' and we serve as one of House Stark's vassals, who in turn is a vassal to the King of Westeros." Alarra finished, only to quickly ask. "Oh, I forgot to ask your name, please forgive me. My name is Alarra Mormont."

The Shapechanger grunted. "My name is Torheim Bjornson. It is nice to meet a fellow Northern even if it is from another land."

Lady Alarra was confused. "Your 'Skyrim' is in the north of your country?"

"Yes, it's weird how this island reminds me of home. Same air, same wildlife, same accents and same amount of bastard raiders that try to plunder its shores."

Alarra grew a smile. "You're sure you're not from here and just making a mummers tale."

Torheim face Alarra. "Mummers? Do you mean Bards?"

Dacey heard the conversation and couldn't help but ask. "And what about your women? Are they the same?"

This grew a short laugh from Torheim. "Ha! I would think my country's women are much more vicious than you, woman."

A challenging smirk appeared on her face, she walked in front of the man, turning around to walk back. "Really, tell me about them."

If possible, Torheim grew an even bigger smirk than hers. "Alright then. I'll tell you about Aela the Huntress, Uthegurd the Unbroken and Mjoll the Lioness."

And so he did, Torheim telling the group of warrior women about three women that seemed to gain respect from the Shapechanger.

Dacey listened as did the others, about how Aela tracked a wolf through a blizzard with nothing but armour and boiled leather that hardly covered her skin. How Uthegurd was able to slay a Giant, a Giant! with a single swing of her greatsword. How Mjoll slew five dozens of bandits just to save one child.

It felt to fanatasical to her liking, like he was just a mummer telling a story you would tell your children at night. Yet she believed him, it was his words, his body language and his eyes that told her what she was hearing was the truth.

He finished, telling them about how Aela had killed a bear with nothing but shield and her fists.

"...and she kept driving the shield, again, again and again, into the skull until it stopped moving. Not even a twitch from the beast as it laid dead in the snow."

"Who goes there?!"

They stopped, seeing the twenty feet high wooden gates of Mormont Keep, an enormous wooden fence that equally as tall as the gate, which held a circumference of half a mile. On the top of the gate was an engraving of a woman covered in bear, a battleaxe in one hand, and a baby sucking at her breast in the other.

On top of the gate was a guard, arrows in a quiver over his back, a bow in one hand. It was he who called out.

Lady Alarra walked forward, the bowmen paled and quickly ordered behind him. "It's Lady Mormont! Open the gate!"

Creaking slowly open, the wooden gates opened. Allowing the Torheim to drag the wagon into the Keep, Dacey and the rest followed him.

It was kind of amusing for Dacey to see several faces turn gobsmacked at the sight of tall man pulling a wagon without effort, but the mood turned sour as she remembered who was in that wagon.

"Mother!" Dacey turned to see Jeor Mormont, a man of twenty with deep brown hair and brown eyes, a small beard on his jaw, run towards them with worry on his face. Wearing black fur and dark leather to keep himself warm.

Dacey looked over to Torheim, wearing only furred breeches and feet coverings. Was this another of his fantastical powers, the ability to resist the cold?

"Are you okay Mother?" Dacey heard her Lord ask his mother. Despite trying to be a strong leader, any cub will be protective of their mother.

Alarra nodded and informed him about what had happened. "Yes son. I was helping Sarra training the new recruits when we were attacked by Wildlings. The men are dead and the women along with myself would have been taken if it wasn't for the man over there. His name is Torheim Bjornson."

Both of them turned, alongside Dacey, towards Torheim who was helping getting the dead Islanders out of the wagon. He was careful, treating the dead with respect.

The women trainees, held onto their brothers tightly only allowing them to be taken away after saying a final goodbye.

"I'll talk to him after we've buried the dead, they have earned it." Jeor spoke with anger, the reason that good men have died but kept in contained.

The burial was short, families of the deceased were there, no tears were shed only pride at dying with honour and protecting Lady Alarra.

Snow looked to the right to see Torheim off to the right of the keep, away from the gathering. His head bowed with his fist covered by a hand, his eyes closed. It was a prayer Dacey realised, a prayer for the fallen.

It was an hour later that the families all went back to their homes, wanting to mourn privately. Jeor, Lady Alarra and Dacey walked over to Torheim, who was sitting down next to the wall, his strange weapons leaning against the wall. He was even able to find a fur cloak so he had his upper body covered up.

The Shapechanger spotted them approaching and stood up. He bowed slightly at the hip. "I believe you're the Lord of this Island. I apologise." All three blinked, Dacey didn't know why he was apologizing. "If I was there faster, I could've saved those men."

Jeor shook his head. "I know, from what my mother tells me that you have a special...gift. I am just thankful that you got there in time to save the women from being taken away. No need to feel guilty." Torheim nodded slowly. "Though she also tells me you come from beyond the Sunset Sea, from a land called 'Skyrim'.

"Yes, my Lord. My ship was caught in a month long storm and was destroyed. The only thing that survived was my weapons and myself, of course."

Jero stared at the giant of a man. Despite the height difference Jeor held no fear. "If you are indeed telling the truth, what do you plan to do?"

Torheim hummed, thinking for a moment. "Personally, I would try to find a way home. I'm not sure if the storm had passed yet, so I would try to find something to occupy myself with. At least until I feel it is safe enough to get another ship to sail back home again."

Jeor nodded to his answer, Dacey saw a small gleam in his eye and waited for her Lord to speak.

"Mmm, well then Torheim Bjornson. I believe I owe you thanks for helping my mother and warriors of Bear Island. Let me treat you with food, and we can talk."

-X-

What do you guys think of the first chapter of the two-shot? Good or bad?