Chapter One:
Aan Zoor Sizaan
"A Legend Lost"
The cool breeze off the Sea of Ghosts blew through Bjorn's hair as he leaned out his window, admiring the sights of Solitude below him. The streets were filled with busy civilians and ranks of Imperial soldiers. Following the Dragonborn's peace parley on High Hrothgar, the Stormcloaks revived their fight as soon as the dragon menace dissipated, and threw their massed forces boldly at the Empire. To much of Skyrim's dismay, and some relief, Ulfric Stormcloak was struck down in 4E 212, after almost 15 years of bloody civil war, and thus ended the conflict. The last remaining Stormcloaks were driven from the land, and Skyrim fell back in line. The Frosthammer's had always been supporters of the Empire, and Bjorn took comfort in the Imperial's presence.
The third story window had an incredible view. Even if he was only 13, Bjorn was very educated about his family, the Frosthammer's, history. In 4E 212, his grandfather, Rylus Frosthammer, bought Proudspire Manor using profit from his partial ownership of the East Empire trading company. Now known as Frosthammer Manor, the family has lived there since. Bjorn turned away from the window, glancing at his calendar. "Oh, by the Nine..." he swore, "Today is Middas... I'm going to be late!"
Bjorn stumbled down the stone steps to the basement of Frosthammer manor where his father was striking a straw filled dummy with his prized steel sword. His father, Jyreth, turned to him with a smile. "How are you today, son?" he asked in his soothing voice, "ready for your lesson?" Bjorn nodded his head, taking his own iron practice sword from the rack. After a few hours of practice, the dummy being sliced and eviscerated by multiple blows, Bjorn's father chuckled warmly. "You've become quite the swordsman, lad," he praised, rubbing his head, "you might be better than me one day." He flashed his charismatic smile and clambered back upstairs. "Oh, and son?"
"Yes, Papa?" Bjorn responded, rehanging his sword.
"What year is it?"
"Um.. 251. Fourth era, right?"
"Correct. And what is today?"
Bjorn beamed with pride, "Dragonborn Day, Papa. You know that." His father smiled back, and continued back upstairs, reminding him that he should eat soon, to restore his strength. Bjorn let his mind drift for a moment. 4E 251, 49 years after the Dragonborn rescued Tamriel from Alduin's rage, and the nightstalker menace. No one heard of the Dragonborn after Lord Harkan was struck down. Some say he went to learn with the Greybeards, while others say he became a recluse, hiding himself away in the mountains. Regardless of where he went, inns around Skyrim still sing songs of his glory.
Bjorn decided to put off lunch awhile longer and spend a bit of time reading. He especially loved the tales of Ysgrammor and the 500 companions, and spent many hours pouring over texts and tomes of his deeds. The basement of Frosthammer manor was not only home to the training den, but also his father's personal study. Bjorn would often come in here to find his father reading letters and reports, managing his inherited share of the trading company. Bjorn gravitated towards the bookshelf, scanning the spines to find the story of Yngol and Ysgrammor's desperate attempt to save him. But one book caught his attention. A dull yellow one, with no name on the spine. His eyebrows raised in curiosity, and he pulled on it. A metallic click made him jump, and the bookshelf creaked open, revealing a spiral staircase. Being young and adventurous, he grabbed a candle and proceeded down the steps.
The dim light from the flame illuminated very little of the staircase, forcing Bjorn to strain to see ahead of him. Eventually, the light revealed a massive iron door, very reminiscent of the ancient ruins scattered across Skyrim. It screeched open, Bjorn pushing hard to move the heavy doors to reveal a modest sized room. He coughed a bit when the stagnant air hit him, but immediately noticed the wonders around him. Ancient Nord artifacts littered shelves, sharing space with books and scrolls that must've dated back to the first era. His finger traced across the shelves, dragging along a fine line of dust. Using his candle, Bjorn lit another candle in the room, resting on a large wooden desk. Bjorn's eyes widened as he picked up a stack of letters, dating back to before Saarthal, before the first settlement, right up to at least 4E 150. Bjorn sat down and picked up one labeled "The Arrival." Not long after reading did Bjorn realize this was a translated Snow Elf text, detailing the arrival of the ancient Nords of Atmora to Skyrim, and the first meeting of man and elf, as Ysgrammor shook the hand of what would soon become their sworn enemies. Greatly interested, he set the note aside and grabbed another one. It was a letter, signed by Yngol... the dead son of Ysgrammor. Then Bjorn noticed the date: 4E 167. Bjorn couldn't understand, so he began to read.
Dearest Rylus, I write to you to give you answers you should know before I pass. As I have told you, yes, it is true that I am Yngol, the lost son of Ysgrammor. And yes, I know that the legends say I was killed by the Ghosts of the Sea before our invasion force landed in the first era. I was given a proper Nord burial outside of Windhelm, and there I lay for many years. I told you that I survived, and that I was the man of legends before you, but you need to know the whole truth. The Ghosts of the Sea did not truly kill me, rather their cold touch rendered me comatose. I awoke, startled, still in full battle dress within my tomb. I stumbled out into the blinding light, nearly fainting at the impressive expansion of my kind across the liberated land. After understanding just when I awoke, I decided to become a person again... live my life like I couldn't when I was younger. I drank mead in great halls, listening to songs that sung of my father's greatness. I met someone, and settled down. I had a child. That child was you, Rylus. When you were old enough, I told you who I really was, and now I write to plead that you remember your heritage. The family you will have eventually will be of royal blood; the blood of Ysgrammor. I go now, back to the tomb my father built for me, to wait out the last days of my life. Carry my legacy, and the legacy of the true Nords. You are kings. Never forget that.
Bjorn dropped the letter, mouth agape. His heart pounded in his chest, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. He was of Ysgrammor's blood. Of Yngol's blood... and his father never told him? Suddenly, he heard his mother, Hrodi, call his name. He hadn't known how long he had spent in this study, but no doubt his mother was calling him for lunch. When he turned to go back up the steps, he ran into his father, who stared down at him with guilty eyes, "We need to talk, Bjorn."
***11 YEARS LATER***
The carriage rattled along the cobblestone road. Bjorn had left his hometown of Solitude just after he turned 24. His father still ran the Solitude branch of the East Empire Trading Company, which made the Frosthammer family very rich. Frosthammer manor became nearly as prestigious as the Blue Palace, and Bjorn's mother and father very much enjoyed the elegant lifestyle. Bjorn, however, used his share of the wealth to gain an incredible education, ordering books from all around Tamriel to inquire about the Old Nords and Atmora. When he wasn't pouring over his tomes, he was hard at work honing his sword skills. After years of spending his days studying his great grandfather's legacy, he fancied himself one of the première historians on Old Nords. Currently, the carriage clattered towards Winterhold, where a Thalmor and the Archmage were gathering an expeditionary team to explore Atmora, the ancient Nord homeland. Despite knowing more about Atmora and the the Old Nords than nearly anyone in Skyrim, he answered the call as a brutish but incredible swordsman, offering protection for the researchers. A few days later, he received a letter calling him to the College, which he eagerly accepted. Ever since he learned of his heritage eleven years ago, Bjorn told himself he would reach his family's sacred land. The College had given him this chance.
Right out of Solitude, the first stop was Morthal for rest and supplies. Bjorn gazed in awe as they passed the Dragonbridge, but afterwards the road to Morthal was dull. Forest turned to marshland, and Bjorn dozed off, uninterested in the bland scenery. When he awoke to the halted carriage in the small city, some claimed they saw a dragon, but Bjorn just sighed. They weren't a menace now. With Alduin's defeat, they weakened and scattered. Moorside Inn was quiet and relaxed. Bjorn ignored the drunk cheers from the fire pit and read up on Jylkurfyk. Early the next morning, he awoke to a drunk bard singing him awake. After knocking the bard back into the main hall and shattering his lute, Bjorn silently climbed into the back of the carriage.
The horses hooves served as an interesting metronome to think to. A redguard, Gerard, attempted to make conversation. Bjorn decided he could spare a few words, and discussed the land of Hammerfell. Bjorn shuddered at the mention of great heat and massive expanse of sands. He prefered the grasslands and snow of his homeland. Gerard got off at Dawnstar, and Bjorn wished him success wherever his path would take him.
The night in Dawnstar was unsettling, with the old shrine to Vaermina so close to the city. The only relief Bjorn got was a fight between two rival miners, which ended with three broken mead bottles, a broken roasting spit, and a miner out for two months with severe burns. The mead knocked Bjorn out, and he awoke in Dawnstar just before his carriage left. Clambering on, he discovered he almost missed Gerard's company. After years of studying and training, Bjorn lacked good friends. Conversation was very welcome. Bjorn smiled lightly, enjoying the great mountains and glaciers that made his homeland unique. Bjorn took out the mission pamphlet. Only one more day on this carriage, and he would have his opportunity.
The carriage neared Winterhold, the College looming in the distance. The snow had started falling, and soon the roads whitened. Bjorn pulled his fur coat around his shoulders keeping the snow off of him. His Nord blood kept the cold from getting to him, but he was no fan of getting wet, especially in tempered leather armor. When the carriage entered the city, the wooden buildings were covered in a blanket of white. The others on the carriage immediately headed off to the inn to warm up and drink away the long journey. "Milk-drinkers," Bjorn scoffed, seeing an Imperial couple hurry towards the welcoming inn doors, "if you can't handle the cold, why come to Skyrim?"
Bjorn's boots crunched in the snow as he approached the College bridge. A mage, clad in their well-known robes, glared at him. "What is your business here, Nord?" Bjorn showed her his letter, and the mage walked him up to the College doors. "Your other team members will meet you inside. The Thalmor and the Archmage will want to meet with you."
Bjorn gazed up at the gates as they opened, the great eye insignia giving him chills. He strode towards the massive doors of the College, admiring the statue and the strong presence of magicka. He placed his hands on the door rings, and sighed. Beyond these doors was everything he wanted. Beyond these doors was his key to Atmora.