#also the comment about not wanting to carry you back to jorrvaskr on his backis really funny to me

[bosspigeon]

You ever...y-you...you ever think abt Farkas’s

H a n d s

mmmmmmmzkosocoocoxococixic

When Farkas locks blades with what they assumed was a run-of-the-mill bandit ambushing travelers along the road, it is Ma’scha who recognizes the gleam of silver first. Perhaps Farkas would notice when it cut him and it burned, but Ma’scha is a thief, and has been since he stood high enough to reach strangers’ pockets. He knows the way precious metals shine, even when they are swinging at the head of a Nord with more courage than sense.

Ma’scha is not the sort to fight when he can solve most of his problems by being quick and quiet, but the way Farkas had wrapped his massive hand around the Khajiit’s scruff to all but throw him behind him and “keep him safe” rankles. He is not some unruly kitten to be tossed about at a whim, even if the Companion has been charged with looking after him.

So, naturally, it is spite that drives him (as it does in most things) to twist nimbly around Farkas’s side and strike like a snake at the would-be werewolf hunter. He slips his dagger into the place under his arm where breastplate joins to pauldron and leaves a convenient little gap for things like flexibility, and freedom of movement, and sharp blades seeking the muscles that lend their strength to the arm.

This is why Ma’scha does not wear bulky armor that would make him slow enough for his enemies to take advantage of his weak points, even if he were some big, musclebound Nord. As if he would ever want to be.

He smirks his satisfaction as the Silver Hand shouts, the agony of cut muscle weakening his hold on his silver sword enough that Farkas can break the stalemate. The arm drops, tucked close so that he can maintain his grip on his two-handed blade enough to clumsily parry the one hacking through his wavering defenses. Ma’scha spins around behind him and makes for the back of his knee as he is occupied with the enormous Nord battering at him as relentlessly as the tide batters the shore.

Another quick nip with the long, slim blade of his dagger, and the whole leg wobbles. The Silver Hand drops to one knee with a cry, desperately slashing out. He gets lucky, and his blade catches Farkas across the forearm, and the wound instantly begins to hiss and bubble. The stench of burning flesh stings Ma’scha’s nose, and Farkas staggers back, snarling like a wounded animal.

And while he is distracted, unfortunately, the monster hunter turns on the Khajiit responsible for what is soon to be his sure and inglorious death. Ma’scha is quick, but sometimes pure, animal survival instinct can trump even the fastest feet. The flat of the wildly swinging sword catches him across the temple and sends him to the ground with stars bursting behind his eyes. He feels more than he hears Farkas roar, his ears ringing, the sound rattling around in his chest the same as it did in the dusty Nord crypt they only just left behind.

He was trying not to think about it, seeing as he was stuck with the man (the werewolf) while cutting their way through a horde of long-dead Nords along with monster hunting zealots who didn’t seem to care that the scrawny Khajiit trailing cautiously behind the Companion clearly wasn’t a werewolf as well, he couldn’t exactly make the escape he has desperately wanted to since he watched the Nord rip his away through half a dozen men and mer as if they were made of paper.

They’d rested before the long trek back to Whiterun, bone-weary from the long slog through the crypt, and he’d considered slipping away while the Nord slept, but it seems those touched by the Hungry Cat’s influence do not sleep soundly, and he couldn’t be certain the Nord wouldn’t simply track him down and haul him back to Jorrvaskr by his ear, knowing the thief’s scent.

He comes back to himself with the stink of blood heavy in his lungs and his head throbbing, to see the damned Nord hunched over him where he lays in the grass by the roadside. His heavy brows lift when Ma’scha’s eyes flutter open enough to meet his. “You lived,” he says astutely, and Ma’scha scowls and tries to roll away from him, but his vision begins to swim the moment he shifts. He tries to swat at the hands that haul him upright, but his reflexes are not exactly his greatest allies in the moment. “Hold still, you,” Farkas scolds him, holding him still by cupping his face between his bare palms. Ma’scha grabs for his wrists, claws flicking out, but Farkas hardly flinches when they sink into his flesh. “You’re being very ungrateful, cat. I just saved your life.”

“This one’s life would not have been in danger if it weren’t for you,” Ma’scha spits, and much to his annoyance, the grip on his face holds him steady enough for his vision to begin to focus again, and to be able to wonder where the Nord’s bracers have vanished to. That bestial roar echoes helpfully in his head, and it begins pounding again in earnest. He squeezes his eyes closed and mutters a curse in Ta’agra, hackles rising with irritation. “He must have been following us since we left that stupid Nord hole in the ground, biding his time. Did you even realize he carried silver before it was stabbing you?”

He opens his eyes to see Farkas frowning at him, thunderous as the murky grey sky above them. His palms are calloused, catching at the fur on Ma’scha’s cheeks, his hands so obnoxiously massive his fingers curl around the top of his head to tickle his pinned-back ears. He thumbs at Ma’scha’s temple, the rough pad of it flaking away some of  the dried blood there. Ma’scha hisses at the sting, but he doesn’t pull away this time. “You’re tougher than you look,” the Nord says, apropos of nothing, and Ma’scha blinks at him. “Think you can stand up? I wasn’t kidding about not wanting to carry you all the way back to Jorrvaskr.”

Ma’scha scoffs and pushes him away once he can be certain doing so won’t leave him dizzy again, but Farkas “helps” him to his feet anway, sticking those enormous hands under his arms to lift him and set him on his feet so he can be certain the Khajiit can stand on his own. “Ma’scha is not a doll!” he snaps, but he tempers the volume so he doesn’t send himself spinning again. Farkas steps away from him and watches him stubbornly straighten himself up on wobbling legs, his head cocked curiously to one side. He uses the time it takes for Ma’scha to get his bearings to pull his bracers on and finish buckling his armor, wiping his sword on the trousers of the dead Silver Hand before sliding it into its scabbard and slinging it over his shoulders. Ma’scha eyes the ravaged corpse critically for a moment, its breastplate torn off and flung several feet away and its chest torn open. He ambles over alongside the Nord and kicks the limp arm by his foot. He makes eye contact with Farkas, watching him from under his heavy brows with his pale, sharp eyes that stand out starkly under the smeared black warpaint around them, and Ma’scha’s cheeks suddenly feel far too cold where the Nord’s big hands held them moments ago. He turns away so sharply he wobbles a bit, eyes struggling to focus as the world blurs before them, but he hides it well by crouching down to see if the dead man’s got any pockets for him to rifle through.

Farkas waits patiently for him to pocket whatever coin he manages to find, and then they set off on the road again in silence. If Farkas notices how often Ma’scha fussily smooths down the fur on his cheeks, he says nothing about it.