Okay, so this is going to be somewhat of a challenge for me as I have never tackled anything like this before. I'm trying for a theme here; to tell the story of my personal Dovahkiin through the eyes of those around him via one of the 100 theme challenges I found on DeviantArt. Hopefully this is a success, and I invite you all on the journey. Constructive critique is always welcomed, it's part of the learning process after all so don't be shy! Have at it.
Some things to keep in mind...
* I am a huge fan of Morrowind's version of the Dunmer, rudeness and all, and reflected my character after that, not the watered down versions in Oblivion and parts of Skyrim. (Neloth kind of redeemed some of Skyrim in my eyes, lol.)
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Thorokyne
#1. Name
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Ralof of Riverwood was never accused of being a complicated man. When asked to describe him, most would say that he was a simple, if honorable, Nord that was ever proud of his country and kin. It had been expected of him, when Jarl Ulfric had raised the spark of rebellion into a full fledged war, that he join the Stormcloaks and he did so without hesitation. He fought the Imperials, the Thalmor, his own kin...whomever stood in the way of Skyrim's freedom, he cut down without a second thought.
And now...now, it seemed, he would be paying the ultimate price for his loyalty.
The headsman was not what he would have chosen to be his end, however, men such as himself and his bothers and sisters-in-arms that stood beside him this day were rarely able to pick their own destinies. Tales and legends were reserved for men like Jarl Ulfric, Uriel Septim, Ysgramor, Talos... He would not be amongst such heroes though he did hold out hope that Sovngarde stood at the other side of that bloody axe. To enter the Hall of Valor, to be at peace with his kinsmen...he would be content in such a life.
As he stepped down from the wagon, he sent a silent prayer to Shor to look after his soul this day.
When he faced Hadvar for the first time since this war had begun, he saw the sadness in his old friend's eyes...the regret...and found a part of him hoping this war would soon end. Honorable in intention it may be, but the civil unrest was taking its toll.
"What is your name?"
The confused, somewhat hostile lilt of Hadvar's voice had him glancing back to see the newest prisoner; a Dunmer whom Ulfric had been glaring at for the last two days, leveling a blank stare at the Nord. Ralof had come to know the expression well, none of his questions answered as the elf kept his thoughts to himself. Even when the high elves whom had escorted them to Helgen came asking questions, the Dunmer refused to speak. Because of this, he sported bruises dark enough to blotch even his azure skin and Ralof would hand it to him for the Altmer never seemed to get so riled up until someone deigned to ignore them.
When no answer was forthcoming, a frowning Hadvar turned to his Captain. "What should we do? There's nothing about a dark elf on the list."
"He goes to the block."
He stared at the Imperial Captain in shock, as did the other Stormcloaks and even Ulfric seemed surprised.
Though clearly grieved at such a command, Hadvar didn't argue and instead turned back to the elf whom looked on in indifference. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely, "we'll be sure to return your remains to Morrowind."
And that comment, as respectful as it was meant to be, was what finally prompted the elf to speak.
He glowered at Hadvar, lip curled up in a sneer as he spat out, "I was born to the ashlands of Vvardenfell, s'wit. The Morrowind of today is no more my home than it is yours. Burn my carcass for all I care, Nord, for my home no longer exists."
The Dunmer's voice gave him away instantly, even if he hadn't revealed his origin. Though all dark elves native to Morrowind retained a certain rasp of an accent from their use of the Daedric language, the Ashlanders were known to have the harshest tones given that they rarely ventured from Morrowind and held up millennia-old traditions of their ancestors.
'True Dunmer,' they were often called.
Hadvar, for his part, stared at the elf, opening his mouth several times to respond but not able to.
"Enough," the Captain snapped, stepping forward to grab the elf by the arm and forcefully drag him to stand beside Ralof and the others. At the elf's sluggish stumble when the Captain let go, Ralof finally understood.
'Poisoned,' he thought, a part of him angry on the elf's behalf. To fall in battle and be captured held a dignity to it that remained with you, however, kept controlled by poison was another thing entirely. Dunmer, by trade, knew a handful of spells naturally and held a natural affinity for destruction magic...no doubt the elf would be fighting if he could.
As General Tullius practically gloated in his success at capturing Ulfric Stormcloak, Ralof's attention was focused on the elf.
A typical Dunmer by the first look, he was obviously no youngster. His eyes gave him away, even if the deep scarring along his arms and face did not. Weary though aware, he was calm and collected unlike the young horse thief whom had tried to run. He was an inch or two shy of Ralof's height, slim but lean...a hunter, if he were to guess. Hair as black as ebony was loose and tangled with dirt and blood hung limply around his shoulders. A mark was inked over the jagged scarring on his face, a sharp narrow design with Daedric runes Ralof had no hope of translating.
As if feeling his gaze, eyes the color of blood turned to regard him.
Ralof held the stare a moment before looking away, focusing once more on the situation at hand.
The priestess they'd brought had begun the last rites, sans Talos of course, but a particularly courageous and difficult soldier within the ranks stepped up, sound only exasperated as he said, "For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."
The woman clenched her teeth, arms falling to her sides. "As you wish."
When the axe came down, Ralof couldn't help but smile a bit fondly. "As fearless in death, as he was in life."
Ulfric met his eye a moment at his words before turning back.
As the Imperials dragged his body away, the Captain turned to them once more. "Next, the elf."
To his credit, the Dunmer hesitated only a moment before stepping forward on his own. When he approached the block, he paused a moment to look at it, as well as the executioner, before kneeling. The Captain behind him, who'd been poised to shove him to his knees, nearly lost her balance and regained it only at the price of looking the fool.
An inelegant snort escaped him and Ralof wasn't even afraid of the glare she shot at him.
In the following years, Ralof would never be able to recall in exact detail all that happened next. As the axe lifted, the ground suddenly shook enough to knock him off his feet and all he heard was the cry of, "Dragon!" before he was running. He managed to get his hands free, somehow, and helped Ulfric and the rest free themselves before he went back to help the elf who was struggling. The chaos that followed as the two of them ran through the tunnels beneath Helgen and, finally, out into the wilderness towards their freedom was exhilarating, terrifying and Ralof had never been so grateful to be alive as he was in the moment they stood outside Helgen, watching as the black dragon ascended into the heavens.
The journey to Riverwood took the better part of a day, however, the elf surprised Ralof with questions here and there, be they about a particular story he shared or Skyrim. When they did finally arrive at his home, he was ecstatic to see his sister, Gerdur, and was thankful for her patience and kind heart when she opened her home to his companion as well despite knowing only that Ralof trusted the mer with his life. A theory that had been put to the test many times in the short time they'd known each other.
When the elf was readying to leave for Whiterun three days later after taking the opportunity to rest and having earned a bit of coin from the local shop keeper for fetching a golden claw in Bleak Falls Barrow, Ralof watched as the elf adorned the leather armor he'd commissioned to have made.
"Ironic," he said, earning the elf's attention. "I trust you with my life, yet I don't know your name."
The elf paused in his motions, crimson eyes meeting his as the Dunmer turned to him. After a few moments, something in his posture relaxed and the elf's lip curled up ever so slightly. "Thorokyne," he finally answered, his voice harsh but not as hoarse as it had been at Helgen. "My name is Thorokyne."
"Well, then," he stood, approaching the elf to clap him on the shoulder. "Thorokyne, my friend, it is an honor to know you. I owe you more than you realize. Call on me if I can ever repay the favor, and think on my words. You don't have to be a Nord to fight for Skyrim."
The elf bowed his head. "And I shall give you my answer when I have learned more of Skyrim, and the people that call it home."
"Fair enough," he conceded, offering a smile. "Best of luck to you, and may the wind be at your back."
The elf clapped his shoulder in return, nodding once before taking his leave.
As the door shut, Ralof couldn't help but wonder exactly how the dark elf would be leaving his mark on Skyrim for there was no doubt in his mind that Thorokyne would shape their future in some way.
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Thorokyne
End of #1. Name
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