2E 560, the ancient Nordic city of Windhelm…

The wind was calm, but its jowls still had the icy bite of a storm. Powdery snow piled in thin sheets all over the cobblestone walkways of Windhelm, and heavy footsteps left deep prints upon the blankets of silvery snow. People, mostly nords, walked through the gently falling curtains of snow and paid no heed when the flakes of white melted on contact with their skin. Next to stone buildings sat men and women dressed in sad assortments of torn rags, doing little to shelter their wearers from the cold, and the majority of them held their palms out as rain catchers to the grey sky hoping for some coin to funnel into their grasps. Once in a time a generous soul would give them a coin or two, but most citizens simply ignored the beggars and walked along on their way.

Guards wearing heavy leather padded armor stood at the corner of every street, watching the shadows for signs of danger. One such guard turned his head away from the sun light and pulled a flask from his chest plate, taking a swig before replacing it in his armor.

Another guard, one with curly brown hair and a short beard, began to make his rounds with his left hand on his scabbard and his right swinging like a pendulum as he walked. He passed one of his fellow guards and waved friendlily. Both of the men spoke with strong nord accents.

"Morning." He called.

"Good morning, Balov." The guard said back as Balov continued to walk through the city.

Balov soon came upon his least favorite part of the city; the slums. People sat around begging for coin and selling themselves and other illegal goods just to get their next warm meal. As this guard entered the narrow alley-like streets people dispersed, hoping not to be found guilty of anything. As the feeling of shallow loneliness began to sink in, Balov reached for the locket around his neck and held it tight in his brutish palms.

He wondered if his wife would have been proud of him; he wondered if their child would have pronounced aloud how proud he was of his father for protecting the weak and the innocent.

He then heard the sound of a baby crying; a harrowing sound that raked his ears, as well as turned the heads of the others in the slum. He dropped the locket back onto his chest and followed the noise into a back alley. The guard prepared his sword just in case and then turned the corner of the alley.

A pointy-eared Dark elf infant lied coddled in linen and furs on the ground beside a gutter drain. Its soft red eyes squinted as it cried out and tried to shake free of its covers with its dark grey-turquoise hands flailing around helplessly.

Balov sheathed his sword and looked around confused as others began to gather around, further hindering his chances of finding the guardian of the child. People leaned into one another's ears. They all knew what the other was saying, but as more of a formality they hid their racist opinions from anyone but their own friends. Balov soon realized that no one else was going to take up the child, so he bent down and lifted the baby boy from the ground. In a matter of seconds (With some help from Balov's soft shushing) the boy had fallen asleep in his arms.

Once more, Balov glanced around the alley.

"Does this child belong to anyone?"

No answer, only more whispers.

"Does anyone have room in their homes for another?" he asked, hopingly.

The wind began to pick back up and the baby boy shivered beneath his wrappings.

"As if I'd allow a grey-skin in my house." Said one Nord man as he shook his head and wandered out of the alley. The rest of the observers nodded their heads in agreement, and then began to leave. In just a few seconds it was only Balov and the child left in the alley. The sun rose over the walls of the buildings, and the orange light of the morn shone onto the coddled infant. The baby opened his eyes just a bit and the light stung at them, causing him to scrunch his face. Balov smiled and giggled to himself.

He took one last glance around and then looked back down at the infant as it yawned silently.

"You're a cute one aren't ya?" he asked rhetorically. "I don't know of any orphanages around here… so I guess you're coming home with me."

The child cooed and smiled as he tried to reach up and grab at Balov's face. Balov had to smile again. He had never held a child before, and he never thought he would after his pregnant wife had taken ill and passed to Sovngarde taking their unborn son with her. He then remembered what he was going to name his first-born.

"I think I'll call you…" The child reached to Balov's chest and grabbed at his locket, "Loghvar."

2E 566, a small homestead south of Windhelm…

"Loghvar!?" Balov yelled down the halls of his farm house. "Have you cleaned your room yet!? You still need to feed the animals!"

There was no response from the Dunmer child.

"Loghvar!?" he yelled once more. Still not a quip from his son. Balov angrily stomped down the hallway and opened every door he passed, looking for his child. He eventually came upon his father's old study and creaked open the wooden door.

Loghvar was sitting cross legged on the floor with a pile of books beside him. Balov crossed his arms and sighed. Loghvar's ears flared up from underneath his medium-length black hair as he heard his father behind him. Loghvar tried to hide the books from his father's view as he turned to face the nord man. The dark elf spoke in an undeniably Nordic accent.

"I'm sorry papa, I was just-

"You're not supposed to be in here." He said, referring to his father's study. The room had weapon racks full of old blades and bookshelves filled with dusty tomes from all over Tamriel. Rare animal pelts hung from the walls, splayed out.

"I know… I just-

"What books have you got there?" Balov said, "I never even knew you could read yet."

"They're just… journals…"

"Those aren't any journals I've ever seen. Were you looking for those?" he pointed over at the wooden desk, and piled atop it was a stack of his father's old memoirs. Loghvar swallowed hard.

"Uh…"

"Now what books do you actually have there?"

Loghvar didn't respond. Balov shook his head and walked over – pushing his son out of the way to see what he had been so interested in hiding from him.

Among the texts were many different books: Aedra and Daedra, The Maomer of Pyandonea, One Staff Many Staves, Racial Motifs volumes two and four: The Dark elves and the Nords, Stendarr's Divine Spear, The Song of Pelinal, Alchemy Practicum, Heavy Armor Forging, Precepts of Stendarr, The Gift of Magnus, and many other tomes, largely containing information on holy rituals and destruction magic as well as fighting techniques. Balov turned to look queerly at his son.

"Do you even understand this stuff?" he asked.

Loghvar nodded his head.

"What are…?" Balov caught his tongue, "Why are you in here? What do you hope to gain from reading these?"

There was a long silence, and then Loghvar looked up at his father with his scarlet eyes.

"I want to be an adventurer, like Grandpa!" He answered.

Balov took a few more moments of silence to let it all sink in. Perhaps it did run in the family, blood or not.

"You can read another time." Balov said as he picked up the books and began to place them back on their shelves. "For now you have chores to do."

"Yes, Papa." Loghvar obeyed and walked out of the room.

When Balov had finished placing the books where they belonged he turned and stared emptily at the weapons hung on the walls. Displayed prominently among them was a sword of Dunmer make. Its ebony colored blade was curved back and forth like the body of a serpent and its handle was adorned in the hide of some Morrowind creature. His father had gone so many places and acquired many a souvenir, but this sword was strangely separate from the rest of the collection, seemingly for no reason.

"I know Pa," he said to the blade, "I won't let him waste his life as a farm boy for all of his days."

He was about to leave the room, but something caught his eyes. Two sets of wooden swords and shields, for combat practice; the same sets that he and his father had used. Balov hesitated at first, but after some thought he grabbed the swords and shields and walked out of the room.

"Loghvar! Forget about the chores! I've got a better idea!" he hollered.

2E 574, Balov's Homestead…

Balov was sitting at the table in the center of the small house; its thatch roof creaked from the winter winds that the season had brought with it. Clutched in his hands were a few pieces of parchment with news from around the provinces transcribed on them. The deadly and virulent Knahaten Flu continues to spread unchecked through Tamriel consuming many lives. Worse still was the failed peace talks throughout the provinces, and it began to look as though war would begin once again.

But this new alliance with the Dunmer and the Argonians… it was fragile at best, but it was also akin to a starved and caged beast when set loose upon their enemies. Balov had fought alongside the Dunmer and Argonians just two years before at the battle against the Akaviri and their slaves. He had never thought that some wrinkly old spell-flingers and a few slithering scale-backs would ever be much in a battle; yet he had seldom seen such coordination and ferocity.

Perhaps the alliance would help to bolster his son's confidence in his true race, and bring awareness to the Elf-hate that had been spreading through Skyrim. Balov knew better than anyone that not all Dunmer were stuck-up arrogant snobs.

The door flew open and the wind certainly helped with that. Loghvar struggled to pull the door closed, but after he did he put a pile of groceries onto the table in front of his father and smiled. He was covered with flakes of snow.

"I got what you asked for, Pa."

"Thank you, Log." Balov said as he got out of his chair. Loghvar watched as his father walked over to where the training equipment was lying on the ground and grabbed a shield and wooden sword.

"Catch." Balov said as he hurled the equipment in Loghvar's direction. Loghvar caught it with minimal effort and held his shield at the ready.

"Are you sure you want to train in this weather?" Loghvar asked, scratching his head all the while.

"A bit of cold never hurt a true Nord." Balov said, "You are a true Nord, right?"

Loghvar barred his teeth and bashed his shield and his sword together pumped full of zeal.

"By Shor's Bones I am!"

They went outside and walked around to the back of the house, facing the brunt of the wind in full. Both of them made ready and raised their arms.

"You ready, boy?" Balov taunted.

"Bring it on, Old man!" Loghvar said with absolute confidence in himself. Balov chuckled.

"Time to see how far you've come."

Loghvar charged forward and slashed for his father's sword arm diagonally. Balov hit the wooden blade down with his and stabbed at his son. Loghvar raised his shield and hit Balov's sword, sending his arm bouncing back. He then used the time to slash up with his sword, narrowly missing Balov's chin as he dodged backwards. Balov shook his head to rid his beard and hair of the flakes of ice that had begun to pile up.

Lightning cracked the sky overhead.

Loghvar lunged forward again and stabbed for his father's gut. Balov blocked the stab with his sword and riposted, spearing for Loghvar's chest. Loghvar ducked down and raised his shield above his head. As he rose back to his feet he pushed his shield upwards as hard as he could, roaring a battle cry to the sky. The shield hit Balov's wooden sword with such force that the faux blade flew from his hands and landed no less than ten feet away.

As he looked down at his son, the wooden and blunted end of Loghvar's sword was pointed at his neck. The Dark elf boy was breathing heavily and his chest noticeably rose and fell with each breath. Loghvar drew a smile, thinning his lips.

"You're sloppy, father."

Balov let his hands fall to his sides, and he laughed. He laughed harder and heartier than he had ever laughed before. An adolescent Dark elf had disarmed him; he, with his years of experience adventuring and being a guardsman, and yet he had been outmanoeuvred by an adolescent Dunmer. The training had worked better than he could have ever imagined.

Balov slumped back onto his rump into the snow piling below them. He noticed that his breathing was far more labored than even his son's. He rested his arms on his knees and glanced up at his victorious opponent. Loghvar was still standing straight with his sword drawn, triumphantly.

"You…" Balov shook his head and laughed some more, "You are a Nord." Both of them went silent, and Loghvar's eyes became softer. He had waited for a long time for his father to say that sentence with such conviction and confidence. "Alright…" Balov said, "Let's feed the cattle and get inside before the storm picks up."

2E 576, the City of Windhelm…

Balov may no longer have been a guard, but he was still afforded the respect often shown to one. People waved happily at the retired farmer and other guardsmen nodded respectfully in his direction. The city had not changed an instance since the times when he had protected it with his own steel; save the Argonian and Dunmer diplomats and soldiers. All of them looked moderately uncomfortable. Their armor had no fur lining between the steel and them, only some fabric and chainmail – not the best armor if you're looking to fight off the stinging bite of Skyrim's northern winds. One such foreigner raised his scaled snout to the grey sky and then scoffed.

"I hope the ice does not fall from the clouds this day." He said as he flicked his tail through the nipping air. "Such a strange thing." He concluded. Balov shook his head and giggled. He thought this Argonian's naivety would have been almost adorable if it weren't so sad, and scaly.

Balov soon turned the corner toward the market place, and aside from all the wooden stalls set up in the market, there was also the black smithing shop. Beside the hot coals of the forge, hammering an anvil with his surprisingly hardy and powerful arms was Loghvar, without an apron and without a care shown for the ashes and sparks that flew off and hit his skin. His face was stern, like a dark elf's for once, and he was focused solely on the rough blade in his hands. He raised the blade to his eyes and, left wanting, returned it to the coals to heat the metal once more.

He looked up from the kiln and smiled brightly as he wiped the soot from his hands and face.

"Father!" He said. Some of the nearby nords gave him a strange look. "What are you doing here?"

"Wanted to see how your new job was going. Is my friend Kijor being a right prick?" He asked jokingly. Kijor, the local black smith – bald and ripe with age, but strong and sturdy – emerged from the blacksmith shop. He too had a thick Nordic accent; plenty of stress on his Hs.

"There's my shield-brother!" He said as he grabbed Balov's fur wrapped hands with his sooty ones, "Your son is a savant with a hammer; caught right on to it he did." Balov didn't appreciate the way he said son.

"Yes, he'd been diving into my father's old collection of tomes. There are a few good manuals in there on Forge work."

"He even refused to wear an apron or gloves – If any nord had been working at that forge they would have been burnt down to the bone by now." He said with pride in his new worker.

Balov looked over to see his son hammering back on the steel without a care in the world.

"I don't see anyone but a Nord there, Kijor. A Nord's heart trapped in an Elf's body." He didn't ever glance back at Kijor; he simply kept on staring at the blistering hot coals, distorting the visage of his son.

Kijor nodded his head acceptingly and licked his chapped lips. "I heard from him that you two often train in your spare time." Kijor said as he crossed his burly arms, "Perhaps he should train with my daughter. A change can be good for keeping their reflexes sharp and provide a new challenge. What could go wrong?"

Balov looked back at his friend now and narrowed his eyes slightly. "That isn't a bad idea."

He had never truly used a real sword before, held them, but had never used them against another person. Loghvar could feel his father's and his friend's eyes watching him as he faced a tall red headed nord woman in the backyard of the blacksmithing shop. Both of them adorned some old iron armor from the back room of the shop, and neither of them had expected the weight to hit them so hard.

"We want a fair fight; no talking trash around your elders, and no hitting each other where there is no armor." Kijor said as he raised his hand. His hand came to rest hovering high above his head. "Fight!" he declared as he brought his hand down onto the balcony railing, slapping it with his palm down.

Loghvar and his opponent both began running at each other shouting all the while as their armor shifted back and forth loosely on their young and still growing bodies. Their armor was dinged and dirty, but their slightly blunted blades were polished to the point where light from the sun flashed around the yard when their weapons flailed around as they ran.

They immediately locked their blades against each other and held their shields to the side; it instantly became a duel of endurance solely relying on the strength of their sword arms. They went for at least a third of a minute pushing back and forth, grunting and breathing through their clenched teeth, spraying clouds of saliva into the air. When he realized that this endeavour was leading nowhere Loghvar released his blade from hers and rolled to the side, just as the young woman brought her blade down beside him, cutting a swathe into the snow and grass.

Loghvar shot up from his feet and smashed the blunt of his blade against his opponent's shield-arm side shoulder. She winced and smacked his arm away with her shield before recoiling back to a safe distance. She looked at her arm and lifted the padding and steel plates to inspect the blow. A large bruise had already appeared.

"Damn it!" She swore. Suddenly, an aura began to glow, haloing around her wound, and sparkling yellow with pure magical energy. A tether of magical light connected her and Loghvar, emanating from his shield hand. As he cut the cord of energy, she once more looked down at the wound. There was no trace of the bruise that was once there.

Balov and Kijor were surprised, impressed, and at the same time drawn towards a state of caution. She was facing more than a warrior now, she was facing a mage.

"I won't use my magic against you, if that's what you're worried about." He said to the woman, "I just want to make this fight last."

The girl smiled at him. Her voice was, unsurprisingly, accented similarly to his own.

"I don't take charity!" She charged at him and the two of them collided in a clash of steel and prideful passion.

After a few good minutes of nonstop sparring, Loghvar came out on top, even if just barely. The girl laid on her back on the snow coated now with dirt and dead grass that had been kicked up in the battle. Loghvar roared and then stabbed his sword into the ground, resting upon its guard as he drew in breath.

"Good fight…" The woman said, "But I won't go… so easy on you… next time." She claimed as she collapsed once more into breathlessness.

"Never… asked you… to." Loghvar said. Off to the side their elders were astonished at how long they had lasted out against each other.

"Good try, Anea, but is seems that the boy has bested you." Kijor said to his daughter, Anea. Anea got to her feet, sluggishly, and looked at her father.

"I was going easy on him!" she claimed once more.

"Yes, yes. That excuse is as old as Alduin's scaly balls. Now go clean yourself up!"

Anea obeyed her father, but smiled amusingly back at Loghvar as she closed the wooden doors behind her. Loghvar finished catching his breath and handed his equipment over to the Blacksmith after stripping back down to his clothes.

"Thank you for letting me use these." He said as he bowed and his greasy, sweat caked hair draped downward.

"No gratitude required, apprentice. Keep up the sword-play and keep your hammering arm tempered; you'll be a journeyman in no time." Kijor said with a smile. Loghvar smiled back. Balov chuckled and grabbed his boy by the shoulder.

"C'mon, let's go home for the day." Balov said as they began to walk away, exiting out the gate in the back yard of Kijor's home.

"See you tomorrow, Kijor!" Said Loghvar as he waved to his employer. The man waved back and went back into the house. The two of them had barely made it down the alley when Balov tapped his son on the shoulder.

"Where, and when, did you learn a restoration spell?" he asked curiously. He was more frustrated with the fact that his son had not told him beforehand than with anything else.

"Grandpa's old books had a few useful spells in them. They were simple enough after I learned the basics of magic. I can thank his books for that too."

Balov scoffed and shook his head, still smiling.

"I always knew you were destined for greater things, and this affirms that."

There was silence after that sentence was spoken, a silence that lasted most of the walk back to their farm. When the homestead was in view Balov grabbed his son's shoulder once more and stopped him.

"I want to give you something when we get inside."

"What?"

"Just follow me to the study."

Balov led his son into his father's old study, left mostly undisturbed over the years except for the tomes that drew Loghvar's interest. Loghvar grew confused when his father simply stood there, unmoving and contemplating, his eyes fixed upon the Dunmeri blade.

"Why are we here?"

"It's time that I gave you something. Something that I assume my father would have wanted me to give to you." Balov said as he approached the weapon racks. Still sitting alone in the center of an empty rack, was the Dunmer sword, coated in the dust of many years, but otherwise perfectly displayed in a shrine-like fashion. Balov grabbed the Blade's twisted scabbard and shook it loose from the rigid and aged wooden frame of the weapon rack.

Loghvar watched in awe as his father swept around and let the ancient dust shake free from the weapon. He silently passed it with both hands facing upwards to his son. Loghvar grasped the sword daintily and put it at his side. Dramatically, he pulled the wickedly dark metal blade from its sheath and watched in amazement as the shiny black metal crackled with sparks of magical electricity. The sound was like many birds chirping, or a sheet of glass shattering over and over, little by little, until the enchantment calmed down, so to speak, and the blade was completely removed from its covering.

"It's amazing… I've never seen anything like it."

"It is a Dark Elf weapon, and I think – in some fateful way – you were meant to have it." Balov said. Loghvar sheathed the weapon and tied the scabbard to his belt.

"But, why would I need a sword? Things are so peaceful around here." He said naively. Balov sighed and shook his head.

"War is coming, Lad. I want you to be ready for that."

"I am ready!" Loghvar said as he clenched his fists, "Who is it? Who wants to test the mettle of Skyrim's sons?"

"It's not that simple. Negotiations with the other provinces have been less than successful, and I can feel an angry wind blowing. I know that by the end of the next few years, you will taste battle."

"I'll be ready for them." Loghvar said, pounding his fist on his chest.

"No." Balov disagreed, "You need to train more." Balov pushed his son to the side and approached the old desk in the study. He pulled the drawers forward, displaying piles of scrolls and even more tomes. "Read over my father's old things. He was a Templar – a knight of sorts, good with magic – and I think you could learn to wield that same power."

"Do you really think I can, Pa?" Loghvar asked.

Balov thought it over for a quick moment. He had always said that he wouldn't keep Loghvar on the farm forever. Maybe this was his chance to see the world, and even help people. It was just what his father would have wanted. He looked down at his square necklace locket and sighed.

"Of course you can. I've seldom seen such a capable youth."

Loghvar smiled excitedly as he stepped forward and grabbed a scroll.

"I'd better get started then." He said.