A/N: So, I thought I'd try to do something a little different as far as TES fanfiction is concerned. This story is largely an experiment in that regard, as most of the original characters presented here are ones that I have played in Skyrim proper. Ironically enough, the only OC for which this is not the case is the Dragonborn presented in this tale.
Warning: Rating is for thematic violence and suggestive situations that may or may not be considered taboo in your culture.
The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim is © 2011 by Bethesda Softworks; all original characters and content are mine.
Right! Here goes ...
PROLOGUE
Four years ago, in the year 201 of the Fourth Era, the dragons returned to Tamriel.
Immortal children of Akatosh, the God of Time and greatest of the Divines, the dragons feared little and were feared by all, carving a swath of devastation with fire and frost, tooth and claw to prepare the way for the greatest of their number: Alduin—destroyer, devourer, master—the ancient Nordic god of destruction, the "World-Eater," and herald of the end of Nirn.
But just as it was written that the dragons would return, so too would another Nordic legend: the last of his kind, neither mortal nor dragon, but a warrior without equal who hunted both. The dragons had a name for this fearsome warrior: Dovahkiin. But the rest of the world—both in prophesy and in deed—had its own name: the Last Dragonborn.
The Dragonborn rose up against Alduin, traveling across the province of Skyrim, learning the ways of the ancient magic called the Voice, which could split the earth as easily as it could clear or cloud the sky. And it was with the Voice that the Dragonborn journeyed to Sovngarde—the afterlife of the Nords—and slew Alduin the World-Eater.
The prophecy now fulfilled, the Dragonborn disappeared into the sea of rumor once more. But the changes this warrior left behind were far-reaching, and indeed, much has happened in the four years since Alduin was slain.
The Civil War of Skyrim ended with the victory of the rebel leader Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of the city of Windhelm, over the Imperial Legion. But his victory was short-lived: one of his generals, Varulf Blackmane of the Companions, had his own designs for becoming High King of Skyrim. He betrayed Ulfric at the Jarl's own Moot, challenging him in front of the other Jarls of Skyrim according to ancient Nordic customs. Ulfric accepted, and fought well. But the challenge cost him his life, and the Jarls recognized Varulf in unison as the true High King.
The shadowy and sinister Dark Brotherhood has become stronger than ever, and is even rumored to be behind the sudden passing of Titus Mede II, the Emperor of Tamriel. The Thieves Guild of Riften, covert and dastardly, has been enjoying a similar resurgence as well. But both are at odds with one another; Maven Black-Briar, a powerful woman with connections to both factions, has been assassinated, and each is convinced the other is responsible.
Yet even in the middle of all this conflict, there are those who will still take their own sides, or keep to themselves in order to survive. The Greybeards, masters of the Voice, continue to live in seclusion within their fortress of High Hrothgar, on the highest mountain in Tamriel—the Throat of the World. The Blades, sworn protectors of the Dragonborn in eras long past, continue to rebuild after being driven to near extinction by the supremacist Second Aldmeri Dominion.
And finally, the College of Winterhold—once the greatest institution for learning the ways of magic in Skyrim, now a crumbling shadow of its former glory—struggles to regain the trust of the Nords. After thwarting an attempt by the Dominion to steal a powerful artifact, they appear to have made steps in that regard, but just how far they have left to go remains to be seen …
"It certainly isn't a coincidence that a master of the School of Illusion cast this attack on the School of Destruction. Illusion is, after all, all about masking the truth."
- Battlemage Malviser, Response to Bero's Speech
The stone halls of the citadel reached dozens of feet high, disappearing into darkness so black that not even the combined illumination of Masser and Secunda could penetrate it. And even if it could, those twin moons were separated by more than just shadows; a layer of rock, immeasurably thick, and as old as the ancient city carved into it, made sure that not one inch of the place never saw the light of day or night.
Not that he needed it, anyway.
The figure strode across the floor—his steps slow but filled with purpose. A blinding white point of light hovered just behind his right shoulder, throwing his hooded face into complete shadow. He paused every now and then, admiring the wonders of this city—a finger caressing the dusty floor, as smooth today as it was four thousand years ago; a brief sniff through his nostrils, smelling the cloying air of a chamber that had not been occupied in centuries; a longing gaze at the glint of brass-like metal that adorned the walls and ceilings of the chamber, metal that would never rust, nor would ever be recreated by the efforts of man or elf again.
And the sound—a deep, melodious thrumming noise that echoed throughout the halls and resonated within his body, vibrating his bones and sending shivers up his spine, and carving downward into his very soul. Even over the clattering, chaotic accompaniment—the turning of great golden gears, the hiss of massive boilers and pistons, and the chugging of engines concealed deep within the mass of rock—the sound still persisted, the only element of order in the chaos this ruin had become.
For it was more than a simple sound, he knew: it was a song; a dirge that their creators had been singing for the last three eras, and would sing until the end of the world. It was the last song they would ever sing.
It was also a reminder; for two human lifetimes, this song had guided him, persuaded him that they were still out there. It had guided his research, and it in turn had guided him here.
His eyes caught on something up ahead: a small pedestal of rock, too small to be a bed, but too large to be a single chair. It was lined in the same golden trim as the walls surrounding it, and the metal was covered in characteristically angular lines and curves, patterns both simple and complex. Within this pedestal sat a recess, long enough to hold an ordinary dagger, but substantially thicker. He traced a finger within this recess, feeling for lumps and ridges.
He found them—in exactly the places he'd been looking for, no less.
Beneath his hood, he grinned. No doubt about it.
He reached into the pockets of his robe, and produced a quill with a sealed well of ink. There were plenty of sheaves of parchment in this chamber that he might be able to put to use. The passing of nearly four thousand years had left them weathered and worn, though not to the extent of total decay—so well had they been preserved. But this message was too important to leave to the risks of bargaining with a force as fickle as time. Fortunately, he knew just the spell to remedy that.
A flash of green issued from his hand as it clutched a sheet of parchment, and the thin substance was immediately encased in a rippling glow, like sunlight on a riverbed. He had a brief moment of pride, thinking he would rather like to see the spell or sword capable of unsealing, never mind destroying outright, the message he was presently composing:
To the Arch-Mage of Winterhold,
It has come to my attention that your College acquired a magical artifact of great power some years ago. It has also come to my attention that said acquisition came on the cusp of a change in your staff structure. While I express my greatest condolences regarding your predecessor, Savos Aren, and Master Wizard Mirabelle Ervine, I fear I cannot offer you much time to adjust to those changes.
Two months ago, I funded an excavation of the Jerall Mountains to the south of Riften, where the Dwarven city of Rkund once stood. Our efforts have recently uncovered something within that may be of interest to you and your College—and indeed, every magical institution in Tamriel were they to hear word.
But I have heard much of the exploits of your College, and am of the belief that you should have first rights to see this discovery for yourself. I do not trust the other citizens of Skyrim, unfortunately, and so I cannot disclose any other details to you, lest this message find its way into the wrong hands. I ask you, therefore, to please come to Rkund and assist me in my efforts.
With a final flourish, he pocketed his quill and ink, and sealed the glowing letter in a tightly furled scroll. Then, holding the scroll in his still-glowing hand, he twitched his fingers briefly, and the bright green color turned into an ominous-looking purple.
He hurled the scroll at the floor. Before it could complete its trajectory, however, the purple glow exploded in a flash of dark light, sizzling into a portal of Oblivion. Then, it vanished, and in its place was a majestic-looking wolf, its spectral fur glowing purplish-blue. The scroll was just barely visible within its mouth.
"Go to the College of Winterhold," the figure instructed softly, in a whisper that was barely audible over the grating machinery. "Seek out the Arch-Mage. Let no one stop you. Let no weapon pierce you."
Howling mournfully, the familiar turned on its paws, and sped down the stone halls towards its destination.
The figure sat down on the pedestal, lazily tracing his finger in the recess once more.
Soon, he told himself. Soon …
