Hey Guys! This is the first chapter in a longish fanfic about... (drumroll) You guessed it: SKYRIM! YAY! Now, before you get clutched, don't worry; I am not abandoning Fire and Ice or any of my other unfinished fics. I need variety and I was getting burnt out on the DMC world. A burnt-out writer is guaranteed to produce half-assed, sub-par works. I can't have that and I know you don't want that. So, in order to keep myself fresh and on top of my game, I decided to start a new story with a new game as the focus. Besides, little Sparrow made her debut over in the Elder Scrolls Kink Meme and was received with high, high praise. So, her story must be told. She demands it. I hope you enjoy her/this. Read and if you wish, review.

G. Evans

Introduction

As it was, Sparrow usually divided the general populous into three sections; people she was neutral about, people she hated, and personal fodder. Sure, it was a harsh outlook. Maybe even bleak. She had no difficulty in admitting that. None at all. However, Skyrim was harsher. Ten-fold, even. Ever since she'd been captured in that gods-be-damned ambush, her life had taken quite an irritating turn.

Bloody Imperials were too thick to realize that she hadn't been a part of that damned Stormcloak group. For Mara's sake; she wasn't even a Nord. She'd tried to tell them, but no-oooooo. Would they listen? Hardly. One had simply clouted her on the head and nighty-night. She'd almost welcomed the dragon attack. Her head had been resting on the actual chopping block and the beast had, in a way, saved her. That had been the closest she'd ever come to certain death and Sparrow had no wish to repeat such a thing. After she'd managed to find her way out of the underground passage, she'd run all the way to Riverwood to lay low for awhile. Vaguely, Sparrow recalled some large brute named Ralof, who'd wanted her to follow him... but she'd left him in the dust. Partnerships weren't her cup of ale and he'd likely just slow her down.

After, she wondered if it wasn't time to put Skyrim behind her for good. This place had never been terribly hospitable to her.

Fortunately, she'd been jarred out if her depressing thoughts when she discovered there was opportunity here. And riches. Oh, the riches. Bleak Falls Barrow had given her a small taste and she wanted more.

In the few short weeks after she'd escaped Helgen, Sparrow had amassed quite a substantial haul since her self-appointed career switch. Not to mention a house of her own. It was in Whiterun; which was supposedly the pride of Skyrim. If that were true, one would think that the real estate here would be a bit pricier. Breezehome had only cost her about a week's worth of adventuring bounty. And that included decorating the damned thing.

"A pleasure to see you again, my Thane," came Lydia's predictable greeting.

Sparrow stomped loose mud and assorted goo off of her leather boots, causing the housecarl's nose to wrinkle in mixed disgust and annoyance, "Ya know, you don't have to call me 'my Thane' all the time, Lydia."

"So you've told me. Still, it's a respectable title and calling you by name would be too familiar at this point in our relationship," Lydia replied, a bit wistfully. Since the girl had been awarded her, she'd yet to take Lydia on one adventure. "And I put a mat on the outside especially for muddy boots."

"Ooops. Did you?" Sparrow widened her mismatched eyes and glanced behind her. Yes. So there it was. Clear as day. "I'll use it next time I come home."

Lydia sighed and went to fetch a broom, "You said that the last time."

Sparrow chuckled and drew a slender hand through her tangled brown locks. The girl was short and slight, even for a Breton. Darkly tanned and scrawny; her long brown hair was rarely combed and kept down naturally. Sometimes, when she was bored, she'd weave a scattering of small braids to mix with the loose locks, but rarely took any other pains with her appearance. Today, she'd just come back from exploring a crypt, and her freckled nose had a large smudge of soot smeared across it. As well as a good majority of the rest of her features. A bright green and an amber brown eye sparkled brightly from her dirty face, contrasting dramatically with the ash and soot. They were her best-known feature, not her blasted shouting ability, which was entirely preferable.

Looks-wise, she supposed she wasn't terribly intimidating upon first meeting, but she considered this a virtue. People tended to underestimate her right from the start, and that always gave her a slight edge. Moreover, she hadn't really wandered out across Skyrim since the discovery; preferring to explore the surrounding territory before moving on. Still though, she knew her mettle. Ever since she had helped to kill that dragon at the Western Watchtower, the town had been abuzz with her apparent "gift". Truthfully, it was becoming a hassle. It seemed that just about every person in Whiterun needed something from her. She was the Dragonborn, correct? Surely it was in her very nature to want to help and perform heroic deeds for nothing other than the goodness of her heart.

No.

Nothing was free for anyone else. Why should she be the combo breaker in that regard? To the hells with that. Her help came at a price. A steep one. If she'd ever lacked for coin before, she didn't now. Honestly, everyone should become a hero. It was incredibly lucrative. And there was still the rest of Skyim's population to harvest. Maybe she'd even earn enough gold for her very own palace one day. Imagine that. Sparrow; bedraggled orphan from humble (to say the least) beginnings, living in a palace. The very thought made an impish grin creep across her lips. Brynjolf would be proud. Her grin grew wider. She liked it when he was proud of her. The handsome thief was the only father she remembered, and she adored him.

He'd rescued her from the orphanage shortly after she arrived, when a the hungry girl-child had tried to pickpocket a sweetroll from him. Of course, he'd caught her in the act, but took pity on the young one. He even gave her the sweet roll after he'd introduced her to the rest of the guild. When they inquired about her, Sparrow told them how a group of bandits had attacked her farming caravan when they were traveling through the Rift, leaving the four-year-old girl alone. Several days of wandering in the woods had nearly done her in. It was a miracle she'd survived, honestly. Between wolves, bears, mages and vampires, Sparrow should have been dead several times over. It was almost strange how she'd come out of the ordeal nearly unscathed. Almost as if the Divines were watching over her. No. That was silly. Furthermore, the guild members quickly became her adoptive siblings. Brynjolf; her adoptive father. And he wasted no time in molding her into a very formidable little thief.

"My wicked little lass," he'd told her. "Woe to the fella' that catches your eye. You'll steal his money and heart quicker than he can blink."

Little lass had been his pet name for her. Until, that is, Karliah showed up. Thirteen years after Sparrow had been found. Now, it was hard to get Brynjolf to even look at her. Much less talk. So she'd left. Went to go exploring for herself. And had promptly landed into some very hot water. Boiling even. Which led us to this very moment in time.

She wondered if Brynjolf even noticed she was gone.

Sparrow shook her head sharply, dispelling the unpleasant memories. Besides, the Divines could kiss her arse. All she had now was of her doing. No one else. Certainly none of the eight, nine or ten. Or however many of them there were. And, by the hells, she intended to make her own mark on Skyrim or perish trying.