This is part one of five of a slow moving project, following all of Skyrim, Oblivion, and parts of Morrowind. I do not own or claim to own any of the Elder Scroll Series (we all know who does); I just enjoy building off of their ideas. This story does not run from the Dragonborn's perspective, although he is the focus character. As stated in the summary, not all parts of the storyline hold true to cannon. This is a fanfiction, not a summary of the game. I am not working with a beta through fanfiction, but with someone I know in RL. The longish chapter warning I placed, as the chapters I have written/am writing have run close to 5000 words each without any AN. This chapter (prologue) is 355.
As a side note, the heroine is technically a SI and will, on occasion break the fourth wall a bit, but it wont affect the story terribly. All the preknowledge in the world can't save you from the reality of chance.
Fëaárë, by the way, was a name I built from reading the Silmarillion (also do not own), translating out roughly to "Spirit of Sunlight". While not the correct pronunciation, Brandy will always say it "fee-ya-ray".
Half and Half
Prologue 00:
21, Sun's Dusk, 4E 201, 7:45 am
"Divines damnit, Brandy! Give me back my robe!" An elk tensed at the distant yell, ears alert and twitching to pinpoint the noise. As silence returned to the mildly snowy valley it relaxed and resumed browsing the lower branches of a tree, fast forgetting that there ever was a disturbance.
"You'd think he'd have learned, by now," a feminine voice mused as a gloved hand lightly patted the deer's rump. The elk yelped— a sound akin to an amplified rusty hinge— and leapt away, dashing down the valley in what was likely record time for the creature, never looking back.
A young human woman, fair skinned, lengthy brown haired, and hazel eyed, grinned as she watched the graceful creature bolt. Some things never grew old. Speaking of which…
"Brandy!" Over the hillside, moments later, stomped a disgruntled man in trousers and worn boots, his damp, bare chest glinting golden in the dappled sunlight. Without hesitation, he marched up to the woman and glowered down at her.
She smiled sunnily up at him, meeting his eyes— both golden orange and milky white— unflinchingly. "Good morning, Fëaárë dear. Can I help you?" She absently reached up and pushed long, blond hair from his scarred face and behind pointed ears.
"'Good morning,' my ass! Where's my robe?" he snapped, his glower darkening.
Her smile became a grin.
Fëaárë adopted a long suffering expression. "You didn't."
"I did."
"Not another mammoth," his tone was bordering on pleading.
"Not a mammoth," the young woman unhesitatingly returned. "Something a bit smaller, on the other hand…"
The Altmer groaned and put his face in his hands for a few moments before he asked plaintively, "Which way?"
Brandy simply pointed down the hillside.
The man peered in the direction she indicated, reflexively squinting his eyes, blind or otherwise, in an attempt to see distant details. At the bottom of the valley, he could see a flutter of sage green caught on…
"You bitch."
Brandy howled with laughter as her companion tore off after the spooked deer, his curses echoing behind him.