AN:/ I'm running with the idea here that the Dragonborn has known what they are for a while, but has yet to face off with any Dragons. They likewise have not gone to High Hrothgar and don't know how to shout. This is pre-Helgen, and pre-Serana although the Dawnguard will operate as a well-developed entity in this novelization. I'm messing with the timelines a little bit here, but I think it works out okay.
Oh, and DISCLAIMER, DISCLAIMER.
Stretched out languorously by the roaring hearth in Fort Dawnguard, Simone caught her mind wandering yet again off the pages of a favorite book. She breathed a sigh of boredom and snapped the book shut.
Most days provided an abundance of grueling labor to keep a soldier occupied from sunup to sundown. There was always, always more work to be done around the fortress- repairs that couldn't wait any longer, floors and walls that needed scouring, vegetable patches to be weeded, and filthy troll pens desperately needing to be mucked. Not to mention her fonder projects at the Forge. Simone liked to boast her smithing skill because she could boast. She made metal sing.
Most days Simone enjoyed the Fortress for its simple, satisfying hard work, long hours, and routine. She liked waking up with the dawn and weeding the potato rows until the sun climbed near its peak and her fingers ached. She'd then curl those stiff, aching hands around the hilt of a finely crafted blade for an intense sparing match with Durak. And it was satisfying.
She trained daily to keep her reflexes sharp. She hauled water from the Dayspring in order to bathe, performed chores because at the fortress everyone earned their keep and tinkered about the forge because it was fun. And most days, that was enough.
But Simone understood that there were days when simple routine wouldn't cut it. Days when her blood turned to liquid fire inside her veins and the instinct to burn, and shout, and fly clawed at her throat for release. Even the luxury of her favorite books couldn't soothe her mind, for it was her very soul itself that fevered. She was Dragonborn, in an age without Dragons, and there were days when the savagery of her nature exploded inside her veins with the deafening force of a legendary Thu'um.
Simone yawned and set her novel aside. She stretched, shuddering with delight as satisfying cracks and pops traveled down the length of her spine in quick succession and noticing how Celann, Ingjard, and the newest recruit tracked her movements from across the banquet hall. She offered them lazy smile.
"Is that a good book?" Celann asked around a mouthful of potato soup, pointing at the novel in question with his spoon. He posed the question friendly enough, but Simone could tell by the unusual tightness around his eyes that he was gauging her. She had been building up to another one of "those days" for the better part of a week, and would eventually hit her braking point. The Dawnguard knew well enough to point her towards the right enemy when it happened and she raged her personal brand of oblivion against the world.
Knowing this, Simone flashed the man a sharp smile. "It's one of my favorites. 'The Wolf Queen'. You can borrow it if you want." She offered, tossing the novel across the table to him. He turned it over in his hands.
"You there, Boy," Simone's bright eyed gaze landed on the recruit- a young, nervous looking Nord who would've had a solid frame, if only he'd stop quaking in it. "What's your name?"
"Uh.. it's um Agmaer." He choked out.
"Well met." I wonder how long you'll last. "Enjoy your meal, comrades." She gave them her most winning smile; the one she knew made her eyes shine and her right cheek dimple before abandoning the warmth of the hearth. She could hear Agmaer's whispered disbelief as she sauntered away.
"She's Dragonborn? Like in the legends?"
"What about it?" She hears Ingjard snap. "Were you expecting wings?"
"I was expecting a warrior, not a beauty." The boy surmises lamely. The veterans laughed at him.
"You'd best learn quickly that appearances can be very deceiving, and that a Dragon is a Dragon, no matter what form she takes." Ingjard counseled.
"Pray you never face that girl's blade in battle." Celann added sagely.
Wise council indeed, Simone had to agree.
Her usually quiet footsteps scraped slightly across the floor in the cavernous halls, a rare thing that'd miffed her ever since arriving at Fort Dawnguard all those many years ago. It had been a bit over a decade since Isran brought her, then eight-year-old delinquent running with the Thieves' Guild, back to Fort Dawnguard to straighten up her act. At the time Simone had been petulant and scared, and hardly saw the dilapidated fortress as a step up from the Riften's ratways. But as she grew to admire her fortress home and its stalwart defenders, she became thankful for the new lease on life it offered.
Isran rescued her from a burgeoning life of petty crime, it was true, but he was also very reason she's started up in Riften in the first place. It all depended on how far back one began their intertwined histories. It was Isran that placed her in the custody of Riften's Honorhall Orphanage. He had rescued her as a babe. His platoon of Vigilants literally carrying her off the sacrificial alter of three Hagraven Witches who'd tried to murder Simone on the day of her birth, thus prematurely ending the return of the Dragonborn. The Vigilants won the fight at great cost, the witches were slain, and somehow, miraculously, Isran and the other survivors managed to keep the newborn alive long enough to place her into more practiced hands. She was left with a sack full of gold and a signed clause forbidding future adoption. After all, the babe was Dragonborn. He dare not lose track of her.
Of course, Simone was quite unaware of these extenuating circumstances when she ran away from the awful orphanage and its cruel mistress. Grelod had managed to fool Isran out of a seven months' stipend before honest word that she had fled reached his ears, and in a great demonstration of the man's persistence he managed to root Simone out of the ratways from which she'd carved her flimsy survival. He was not her father, yet he was all she'd ever had, even since the beginning.
Though cold and stern in demeanor; Simone knew that Isran truly cared for her. However despite this, or perhaps because her cared, he continually placed her in dangerous positions. He demanded more of her than anyone else, yet he gave her all in return. He taught her everything he knew, never holding back, always pushing her with the same ruthless intensity that fueled his hatred of the vampire. He forced her to be strong.
Simone climbed the spiral staircase leading to Isran's loft. It was a large, open space; drafty and cold even during Skyrim's brief summer months. A thin straw mattress sat near far side of the room behind a private divider while a giant, cluttered desk occupied the central floor space. A lonely brazier stood cold and unused off the right, forgotten by the room's sole occupant. Simone made a beeline towards it and began the task of starting a fire.
Isran spared her a glance as he poured over his maps. "What do you want?" he ground out, clearly irate by her intrusion.
Simone shrugged. "I'm restless." She admitted, and watched his posture go rigid for the merest fraction of a second before he swiveled around and stalked towards her.
"Then go make yourself useful," he growled.
She lifted her chin and matched his gaze with steel. "Give me an assignment." She challenged back. Or in other words, find me something to kill. Isran huffed.
"Take Beleval and do a sweep of our perimeters." He said, dismissing her coldly. Simone refused to budge.
She didn't know what possessed her to speak her next words aloud. All she knew was as she'd stood there, facing Isran's back as he walked away, and the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.
"I'm thinking about joining the Mage's Collage."
Isran didn't look up from his paperwork. He didn't deign to respond or make any acknowledgment that he'd heard her at all. A whole minute passed in stubborn silence, and then another without a single word.
At last he grew impatient. "Take Beleval. Sweep the perimeter. Now get out."
Simone went quickly.
###
By mid-morning the next day the women were hiking back up the switchback slopes leading to Fort Dawnguard. Their perimeter sweep had been largely uneventful as the night dragged on with nary a disturbance to pepper things interesting. Their single greatest provocation came from two juvenile wolves that'd made quite the show of snarling and barking, only to scamper off when the women flashed their crossbows.
Beleval made for surprisingly excellent company during those long moonlight hours. The Bosmer was a relatively new recruit of the Dawnguard, and Simone found that she liked the other women immensely. She had a humor about her that reminded Simone of her Celann or dear Sorine, whom she hadn't seen in the past four months as the Dwemer fanatic was currently traipsing across Skyrim researching new schematics. Simone missed her friend terribly.
"As soon as we get back I'm taking a nice, long nap!" Beleval exclaimed in a loud, honest manner that was so refreshing when nearly everyone else she lived with was as dour as Isran. Simone heartily agreed with the assertion. They were both more than a little tired, wind chaffed, and hungry.
The women began climbing the impressive stone-step porch when Durak charged out the fortress doors. His eyes lit on the Simone and he beckoned her.
"Come on. Isran's got a job for you." He said without preamble before turning on his heels and stomping away.
"Well he's in a happy mood," Beleval scoffed, but Simone could see questions burning in her large dark eyes.
"I guess I won't be catching up on any sleep," Simone said with a shrug. "I'll find you later and we'll work on your quick draw." She promised, watching the elf visibly brighten. They parted ways and Simone followed the brusque orc into the fortress where Isran and Celann awaited for her arrival.
"Welcome back," Celann greeted. The men were gathered together in one of the fortress's small interior chambers. "How are our borders faring?"
Simone shrugged. "They're the same as ever." She eyeballed Isran from across a banquet table where he stood silhouetted by the hearth's warm glow.
"Durak says you have something for me." She prompted.
Isran stared into the depths of the fire. "How much do you know about The Companions?" He asked. Once more, Simone shrugged.
"I know they're mercenaries." she said, "but beyond that, not much."
"Not just any mercenaries," Celann corrected with a small, awe-struck expression. "They're the greatest sword masters in all of Skyrim!"
"Oh please." Simone snorted. Her face split into impish grin. "I'm the best in Skyrim." Celann chuckled and muttered something about 'cheek' under his breath.
"Both of you focus," Isran reprimanded suddenly. He seemed unusually tired, and Simone found herself wondering when the last time he'd slept was.
"I've been receiving letters from The Silver Hand for the better part of a year now," he continued. "Krev is certain that there are werewolves masquerading within the ranks of The Companions, but we haven't had the manpower to properly investigate the claims before and I won't risk confrontation unless I'm certain."
"Recently, some new information has come to my attention." He paused to hold the gazes of each man- roving from Durak to Celann before settling his cool eyed stare on Simone. "We've confirmed that there are werewolves in Jorrvaskr."
"So we head to Whiterun then," Simone shrugged. "If we know where they're hiding; we can root them out at the source."
Durak frowned. "The Companions are respected in each of the nine holds and they have the protection of Whiterun's militia at their backs. Confronting them at Jorrvaskr would be huge mistake."
"I agree," Isran sighed. "Which is why I am sending Simone to infiltrate the guild. We can't go toe to toe with them until we know what we're dealing with so I need someone on the inside to scout out the situation and figure out how far up the conspiracy goes."
"You're sending me in alone?" Simone blinked in surprise. Such a thing was unprecedented. Isran never sanctioned solo missions; he considered them reckless and foolhardy. It was an undefiled rule that every Dawnguard traveled in pairs. Simone and Durak had been operating together in primary since she was fourteen.
This rule had more to do than its obvious safety factors. Isran's personal philosophy's considered the rule to be critical towards maintaining their organization's morality. Acting as a unit, the Dawnguard delivered retribution, but as the lone soldier such actions could only be defined as revenge. And Isran did not believe in revenge. He considered it sloppy.
Isran's steely gaze bore into her and Simone prickled under the scrutiny. "I don't understand," she voiced with a frown. "Why are you sending me for this mission? Is this about what I said? About joining the Mage Collage?" It came out more accusatory than she intended.
"That's partly the reason, yes."
Simone felt indignation swell hotly inside her chest. "Why?" She scowled. "I'm good at magick; I'm better at it than you! Why are you so afraid?"
"I know you're good at magick," He returned evenly. He loosed a weary sigh. "You're good at everything you set your mind to. But you're also arrogant and competitive and you don't need to be dabbling in dark arts."
"Oh, don't spin me that horseshit! You're the one who taught me everything I know about restoration magicks!"
"Restoration magicks channel light, Simone. They're a gift to us given by the gods. But there's nothing holy about summoning the living dead, or atronachs, or demora into this world. It's unnatural and it's evil. Even the elements mages conjure have to come from somewhere- think about it. Where do they come from?"
Her jaw clenched when she didn't immediately know the answer. Isran saw this, and answered for her. He leaned close so she could feel his breath ghosting over her face.
"They're pulled from the very planes of Oblivion," he said slowly. "And it puts a black mark on this world every time. I don't want to see you getting mixed up in that sort of thing."
Her ire spiked, but Isran had done his best to drill patience into her over the years, and to know when to fight her battles. She wouldn't let this go, but she well enough not to press the matter here... not yet at least. Simone clenched her jaw and tried to stamp out the angry blush heating her cheeks.
"I… understand, sir." She grit out.
"Good. When you get to Jorrvaskr, I want you to keep both eyes open. Find out who's under the mark of the beast and how far it's spread. This could potentially be bigger than The Companions. All of Whiterun might be infected, so you'll need to be extra careful and keep your blade sheathed. There won't be backup this time and we can't have you provoking a full-blown war just yet."
"So that's it? I'm just supposed to spy on them the whole time?"
"Well by all means, take advantage of the training while you can!" Celann cheered. "You're going to Jorrvaskr! You'll be living in a legend with The Companions! You're bound to pick up on a couple good tricks while you're there. You may even get your ass handed to you a few times. I hear werewolves make for some pretty hairy opponents." He winked. Simone rolled her eyes at the awful pun.
"How soon do I leave?" she finally asked. She hoped to have a little time. Last night's all-nighter had taken its toll, and she was exhausted.
"You'll spend tomorrow night in Riften's inn. After that you'll ride a carriage the rest of the way to Whiterun. I suspect it'll take you about six days."
"Perfect," she sighed. "Is there anything else I should know?
"Only that this could go terribly wrong if we aren't careful," Isran admitted. "The Companions are a great source of pride to the Nords. There are many who will come to their defense, but only a precious few will aid yours. Be vigilant, and most importantly- don't allow yourself to get to close."
"I understand."
"Good," Isran grunted. "Then pack your bags, because you're going to Jorrvaskr."
AN: / So, what do you think? Should we keep going with this and find out where it takes us?