Prologue - Origins
By the grace of the Divines, there was once a good Nord couple. They were happy in almost every respect. He was handsome and strong. He worked hard and doted on his lovely wife. She was as beautiful and as delicate as a wispmother. She was small, capable and fiery and she loved her husband more than anything in all of Skyrim, in all of Tamriel.
They had bought land in the hold of Falkreath after they had married. They had built a warm, solid cabin. They had sold the logging rights to the local sawmill and on their cleared land they grew an array of herbs and vegetables that they sold in the town of Helgen and in Falkreath city itself. Yes, they were perfectly happy with their idyllic lives of domestic and pastoral bliss. Almost. There was one glaring hole in their lives and in their hearts. They were childless. The man had no heir to pass on his legacy or name and the lady had no baby to pass on her love and life knowledge.
For years and years they tried to conceive. They prayed to the nine Divines, individually and all together. They prayed daily, nightly and before every meal. But time moved on and the good couple began to feel that their pleas fell on deaf ears. Even Talos, the Nords own god-king, did nothing for them. They became more desperate, seeking alchemists, mages and priests to help them and all to the same end. The lady watched helplessly as her childbearing years passed by bearing no fruit and she fell into despair.
It happened one day when she was feeling at her lowest, that she began to hear the whisper. At first, it hovered on the edge of her awareness but very clear. The whisper spoke of a way for her to have a child still, that all hope was not lost and that maybe, just maybe, she had been praying to the wrong gods. It became stronger and more insistent as days passed and she began to listen and ask questions of the seductive voice. What was she to do?… How was it so?
The whisper told her to go to a sacred site and there she could pray to an entity that would hear her and maybe even make her prayer come true.
One night as she lay in her warm bed next to her slumbering husband and she felt the emptiness of her womb most keenly, the voice came to her and said that it was time for her to go.
Not knowing why, she obeyed the mysterious voice. She slipped from her warm bed, kissed her husband softly and murmured a promise to his sleeping form. She wrapped a shawl around her delicate shoulders and walked out into the chill night.
The cave was, surprisingly, only a few miles from her home and as she entered it she found the interior much warmer than the night that she had trekked through. There was light coming from braziers and candles lining the walls of the tunnel that she followed, though who lit them and maintained their warm glow was a mystery. The tunnel opened out into a small cavern which was dominated at its centre by a vast stone Shrine.
The Shrine was surmounted with an even more vast statue of tall, horned man, holding aloft a Carved Mask and with a fierce looking dog at his side. She suppressed a shudder and smothered the sudden fear that had crept into her bones as she beheld something that she had only ever heard of in the stories and the songs of bards. She knew she was in the presence of Daedra.
She crept forward removing a golden necklace from her throat, a gift from her departed mother and her most precious possession, and used it to bind the stems of the bundle of wild flowers and herbs that she had collected on her short trek.
She dropped to her knees before the statue and laid her offering at its feet and began her prayer, all the while wanting to run back to her home , her husband and her warm bed, but her desperate need was stronger than her fear. She prayed on.
She was genuinely shocked when the voice issued from the statue. She looked up at its frightening face and listened intently as He spoke. The voice was cordial and friendly, even folksie as He introduced Himself to her.
The Daedric Prince of power, trickery, wishes and bargains, Clavicus Vile. He was amiable in His manner but like all of the Daedra, unbeknownst to the lady, He was tricky and He was not interested in offerings or gold. Clavicus Vile liked to make deals, deals that were too good to be true, deals that were akin to a double edged sword and usually ended in disaster for all but Him.
The lady knew little of the Daedra and even less about this particular one, so she listened intently as He laid out the contract.
He told her that He would give her a child and that child would grow to be a legendary warrior whose name would be sung by bards for years to come. The child would be brilliant and would amass a great fortune and would take its place in Sovngarde along side the likes of Ysgramor himself.
The womans heart soared as she heard everything she had ever longed for being laid out before her.
The Daedra continued; in exchange He wanted only one small thing. A task would be set by each of the sixteen Daedric princes. Small things, easy and trifling. The sort of thing a hero could do in a day and be home by suppertime to tell the tale of over a cup of mead. Not much of a price: one baby for a few middling, little tasks.
The woman was so full of joy, she did not hesitate. Just as the words of assent left her lips, the moment her agreement was pronounced, the statue of Clavicus Vile leapt to life and pounced on the helpless woman. The statue of the Dog looked on impassively as its master brutally raped the good Nord woman.
Later, as she lay on the cold, stony floor of the cavern, sobbing quietly and bitterly, the statue of the Daedric Prince back on its shrine, cold and stone as it has been when she had arrived in the dread cave, she knew she had been cruelly tricked. She would indeed have the child she craved, but it would not be made of the love of her husband. It was to be a halfling, an abominable mixture of her Nord blood and the seed of the reviled Daedric prince. She gathered herself, wrapped herself in her shawl and painfully retreated from the cave and trudged home in the predawn darkness. She resolved on that horrid trek that she would not to tell her husband of the events that had taken place in the cave. She would present him with his heir, raise the child to prepare it for its destiny of greatness as promised by Clavicus Vile. The secret would weigh on her, but she would not allow the childs unnatural father take away from what she had suffered for. Her husband would be none the wiser. She slipped back into their bed moments before the good man woke to greet the beautiful Skyrim morning.
Time passed and she grew large with child. Her husband glowed with pride that he would have his heir and that his name would live on after he was gone. He doted more and more on his lovely wife, for while her belly grew larger, the rest of her began to fade. She began to look frail, her eyes sunk deep into her face and she began to take on a grey sickly complexion, her skin stretched taut over her bones. She was sick every day, until her voice died from the constant strain of retching and as she came closer to her time she ate nothing at all. He worried and fretted over her, travelling to and fro to find potions and remedies. Each time he was forced to leave her he fretted more. Each mage and alchemist he bought home with him seemed to be able to do nothing for her and in the end nothing could be done.
In the middle of a stormy night, in the middle of Skyrims harshest ever winter, the baby was born.
Wailing in the night as loud as the bone chilling wind outside the cabin, the little girl was put to her mothers breast. The Nord woman looked at her hard won daughter for the first and last time. The moment before she closed her eyes, she knew that the Daedra and tricked her again… by giving her a baby that she would not raise… that she would barely hold and she wept at the unfairness of it all and cursed him with her final breath.
The Nord man was devastated with the loss of his beloved wife, but he was now also a father and he pushed aside his grief and turned all of his love and attention into the care of his daughter. He threw himself into fatherhood, teaching the growing girl all he knew about Nord life. She was very smart, more intelligent that he. She was quick to learn what he knew and then she set about learning all of the things he did not . She learned to read when she was very young and he spent more gold than he should on a collection of books, one by one traipsed back to the cabin from town and devoured by the little girl. She was six years old when he looked at her and knew that she was not his child. He had never cared to see it before that moment.
They were in the woods looking for mushrooms, herbs and berries. She was some distance from him, crouched in the underbrush, digging up wild garlic. He found himself staring at the little girl, her rich black hair tucked behind her little ears her wide eyes focused on her task. Green eyes. He and his departed wife both had blue eyes, he was blond and though his wife had darker hair, it was nowhere near the deep ebony that the little girl possessed. She had the look of her mother, but nothing of him. He was so engrossed with examining the girl that he did not hear the bear approaching.
The woodcutters heard the screams and the deep rumble of the bear and ran towards the sound to help. They had burst into the clearing to find a little girl doused in blood, standing over the prone body of a massive cave bear, her fathers dagger held loosely in one hand. The good Nord mans body not far away, crumpled on the ground and devoid of life. They looked at the small girl in awe, not really believing that she was responsible for felling the bear, deciding instead that the man must have killed the bear and lost his own life in the scuffle. This decided, they collected the girl and took her away from the horrific scene.
The girls life was hard after that. Her parents farm was seized and placed in trust and she was sent to Honorhall Orphanage in Riften and placed under the care of Grelod the Kind, a sour woman who used her young charges as a slave workforce. The girl didn't like it there and ran away after only a few days and sought to make her way back to her farm. She was trekking through the hills on the border of The Rift and Falkreath holds when she was set upon by a group of bandits. The second in command of the group of ruffians was killed in the small fracas when the small child struggled. He had lost his footing and fallen and dashed his head on the rocky ground. The leader had sized up the little girl, violently struggling against three of her men. The girl was strong and resilient and the bandit leader sold her at the first opportunity to a slaver heading south to Cyrodil. The small girl was shackled and tossed in the back of a wagon for the trip south and sold again on her first day in the slave markets of the capital.
Slavery wasn't too bad at first, though she had thought about running away. She now didn't know her way home and she didn't relish being caught, being told time and again by the slavers what happened to escaped slaves, and it was actually better than the orphanage. She was set to work in the kitchens of a large and prosperous house that belonged to a wealthy merchant. She spent her days cleaning, tending the fires, preparing vegetables and dumping the kitchen scrapes to the animals. The merchant owned two cows, a goat and twelve chickens. She helped milking and gathering eggs and she became quite attached to the animals. She also began to learn a few things other than cooking and cleaning. The slave in charge of caring for the animals and maintaining the stables had once been a thief in Elsweyr and he taught her how to pick a lock and the best way to move around without being observed. He taught her how to work the forge, though she made only the simplest of things, horseshoes and such, and she could hone a blade.
Though it was hard work and she slept infrequently, the master was kindly enough. None of his slaves were beaten, unless they really deserved it. The slaves were even given gifts on their birthdays. If the slave didn't remember when their birthday was, one was allocated to them so they didn't miss out. They even got given days off every now and then, though they were not to leave the compound. The Master had observed the girl reading in an out of the way place on one such day off. She had traded her birthday gifts; a pair of shoes and a pretty length of green ribbon for a history book about the Oblivion Crisis. That evening she was summoned to the master he advised her that her new task was to read to him in the evenings. His eyesight was going and he could no longer make out the texts in his vast library. She started her new duty immediately. At first, she was nervous and spoke only haltingly, but she grew more confidant as she went along. The master folded he hands over his lap and lay his head against the back of his chair and listened as the young girl orated the lore of Tamriel from a little stool at his side. And so it was night after night thereafter.
She'd either read until he dismissed her or became distracted by some business matter, but most frequently, until he fell asleep in his chair. She would then put the book away and quietly leave the room, nodding to the footmen as she left. She assumed they woke him and sent him to bed.
One night, the old man waved her towards the shelves to select a new book, and she retrieved a leather tome with gold lettering that seemed to shimmer in the candle light. She took her place on her little stool and opened the book and started to read. There was as strange crackling sensation around her for a moment and then there was a flash from the book and it disintegrated in her hands. She was frightened that she would be beaten for destroying the book, however inadvertently it was. But instead, the Master sat up straight up in his chair and looked at her in surprise and awe. She had picked up a Spell book in error and as she had opened the book and absorbed the words, the spell had been learned and its embodiment, the book, had not been needed anymore. The master explained it to her and wanted to see if she could make the spell work.
In the dark, warm night, he had taken her out to the courtyard and stood her before an old armour mannequin and told her to cast her first spell. She didn't know what kind of spell she had learned until fire began to spill from her fingers and engulfed the mannequin across from her. As the spell ran its course, the old master looked on in wonder from the pile of burning rubble to the young girl. He made a decision that she would not be a slave anymore. She was ten years old now, but much too young to be trained as a mage so the Master made her his apprentice. Though he had no skill as a mage, he did have money to buy spell books and he could purchase the services of a tutor for her.
She became quite proficient in the art of magicka and she also came to love her elderly former master as one would a kindly grandfather. He began to dote on the girl and would give her everything she asked for. One bright sunny day, completely out of the blue and to his surprise, she asked him for lessons in combat.
Cyrodil was the seat of the Fighters Guild and while she enjoyed the education that she had received she did not really want to be a mage. She was a Nord and Nords were warriors. She had seen the Guild walking in the streets around her masters home, in groups or alone and they were magnificent in their shining armour. She had seen a particular tall Elven lady many times, a Bosmer. She carried a glittering golden bow that glinted in the sun as she passed on her business. She was beautiful and proud and she looked fearless and the young girl wanted that more than she wanted the life of a mage, closeted in dusty libraries or hunched over enchanting tables making grand weapons for others.
The old master gave into her and a tutor in the art of war was sought, found and employed.
He was an imperial soldier. Stoic and stern. He taught her to swing a blade and draw a bow, he taught her how to use her fists with good effect and she, of course, fell madly in love with him.
She was young and he was an honourable man and did not even think of his young charge in that way. Nothing happened between them other than a friendship. Nothing, that is, until the night of her seventeenth birthday.
That night was the night her master died.
He was a good and kindly man who loved the girl as a daughter. But, he had never adopted her. He had never freed her and on paper at least, she was still his slave.
But it was the Paperwork that mattered. The Bureaucrats of Cyrodil were at his door within an hour of his death to secure his chattels. His slaves were rounded up in the courtyard by the Imperial guard to be sold to recoup the old mans debts. The girl fought against them, using her teachings and got free. She ran through the streets looking for a place to hide and she invariably came to the door of her fighting instructor and paramour.
He opened his door to her pounding and with a look of surprise, ushered her inside. She told him what had befallen the house of the old Merchant and he listened carefully, brushing away her tears as they began to spill down her cheeks. The soft touch turned to a caress and the caress to a kiss and the kiss became something much more intimate. That night she gave herself to the imperial soldier body and soul in her grief and her fear. He had held her to him afterwards whispered that she could not stay. In Cyrodil, she was a slave, she needed to run away.
He gave her armour, money and weapons and instructions on how to find a small group of mercenaries who could help her find her way in the world. He sent her packing at dawn with a heavy heart.
So she was alone again, making her way in the world with little in the way of guidance and knowledge of how the world worked. Book learning was one thing but real life was something quite different. She found those mercenaries that her paramour had told her about and in their ranks she found a new home and her real education began. Her skills grew exponentially and so did her fame. She was a rare beauty and her fierce reputation drew others to her and to the ranks of her group. It also drew others that she would rather had kept away… Like the glare of the Imperial guard and the memory of an escaped slave.
She was forced to run again in her twenty second year of life but this time she had not bearing. She didn't know where to go.
She was laying on her bedroll one night, hiding in the underbrush by the side of some nameless road. She was to close her eyes and sleep before she would resume her trip to nowhere in particular when she began to hear the vague stirrings of a whisper in her ear. The whisper told her to go to the land of her people. It told her to head north to the majestic beauties of Skyrim and the land of the Nords. She was not one to normally follow the suggestions of disembodied voices but just before her eyes drooped closed, her mind was made up.
She was twenty two years old. She could claim her family farm in Falkreath, she could have done so six years ago under Skyrim law. She was not a slave in Skyrim.
She had a direction and she followed it at sun up.
She travelled for days and she came to the border of Cyrodil and her homeland of Skyrim, a place she had not seen for sixteen years, with relief flooding her heart and renewed strength emboldening her body.
She was excited at the prospects that lay ahead of her, right up until she received a sharp blow to the back of her head and fell into unconsciousness.
She awoke sometime later to the gentle motion and creaking of a wooden cart…
AN: OK so, what do you think?... You wanna carry on and find out what happens to my girl. I know it wasn't the happist of beginnings