Disclaimer: The series and characters belong to Bethesda Softworks - except when there are OC's of course. All characters and events are fictional and not based on real people or events.

A/N: I love reading stories about the Elder Scrolls worlds, but stories about M!Dragonborn seem to be quite rare on FF! So I made my own… :P Didn't feel like following the game story too strictly, so I threw in some trippy stuff. Enjoy!

ONE

Lost skooma

"There he is! Stop him!"

Horse hooves clattered over land and rocks and the riders' armours rattled loudly in the process. Two Dunmer on horseback furiously pursued a man holding a bag so dearly to his chest that it seemed like his soul was trapped inside it. The man was athletically inclined, but his feet were no match for the dark-coloured horses chasing him. He could feel the two Dunmer quickly getting closer. When a swing of a sword missed his ear just by a finger, the rocks on the road started calling to him in a melodious whisper:

"Use us…use us, oh magnificent Alfgeirr. We are yours to command."

Immediately the man swept the rocks into the air with telekinetic powers, making one of the Dunmer smack his face head-on against the rock with the velocity of his horse's run. A sickening crack sounded and the Dunmer was instantly flung from his horse.

"ORINI!" his comrade cried out in rage and dismay. He did not turn back, however. Having his mind set on retrieving his goods and taking revenge for his fallen kinsman, he was determined to hunt the man down. No matter what it would take; he was going to see the half-breed's blood flow. When a rock shot his way there was no longer the advantage of a surprise attack and the Dunmer easily blasted the object aside with a fire explosion. The runner barely noticed this as he was too busy listening to the rocks sing.

"Oooh, oooh, the mightiest of all is Alfgeirr Lestrange! He is the wisest, the strongest, the mightiest! Fear him, fear him, all of Tamriel!"

In a moment of heat, the man turned around and everything smiled at his brave endeavour; the sun became brighter, the grass greener, the sky bluer and even the Dunmer's horse that smacked into him squarely grinned encouragingly to him. Truly, Tamriel was at his mercy. He was hurled into the air and thrown against a tree. Two of his ribs cracked, but the man hardly felt the pain. As he lay on the ground, unable to move, he realized just how interesting the grasshopper before his nose was.

Only the sound of more horses and clattering of armour had him look up momentarily; three guards on horseback from the Imperial legion towered over him.

"Damned dark elves! Extracting your grudges on Nords again!" a Nordic guard called out.

The half-breed tried to flip himself over but was unable to execute the motion. Instead, he laid his head down on the grass and listened to the incoherent shouting of the Dunmer and the guards. The clanging of swords sounded nice to him, their rhythm somnolent. So very soothing…that he could just close his eyes and fall asleep…

~ Av molag anyamis ~

Alfgeirr Lestrange woke up with a start, pulled out from a ghastly dream from which the pain still lingered severely in his chest. "Ooh…" he groaned in exasperation when he realized the pain was much worse than in his dream. In a snap he noticed his abhorrent environment and the presences of other life forces in his range. The wretched stench of rotting flesh, dried body fluids and sour sweat forced their way into his nose and he gagged in disgust. By Ysmir, he thought as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Was he in jail? Stripped down to a loin cloth, his belongings had been confiscated from him till the last coin. His eyes widened in panic. The skooma!

In a hysterical fashion the half-breed franticly searched around him for the lost bag, all the while groaning from the burning pain of his wound. No bag. There was no bag in this tiny, dirty cell. With an outraged cry, he slammed his fists on the dust ground and buried his head between his arms. The pain in his chest tore through his body and he gritted his teeth. His ribs might have been really broken when he was flung against that sturdy tree... He couldn't really remember what happened after that. Did Sarthis Idren die fighting against the Nordic guards? No, knowing the dark elf he probably would have fled the scene. Alfgeirr gasped in horror at the possibility of Sarthis having run off with the moon sugar and skooma crystallines. In a panicked state he shot upright, only to be punished by the wrenching pain of his broken ribs. The skooma had done an excellent job suppressing his pain sensors up till now. If only he could have a little more! He had to escape and retrieve the bag, no matter what it would take.

Tremulously, Alfgeirr opened his palm and muttered a healing spell which instantly subdued the pain in his torso. He could feel bones reconstructing inside of him and closed his eyes at the soothing sensation.

What happened to that bag of treasure? The unanswered question gnawed at him, eating him up from the inside. If the Imperial Legion had it they would surely destroy the crystals. Although, Skyrim seemed to be more tolerant towards Skooma, even though their skooma was a watered-down version. His skooma was pure and refined. There was no competition for his alchemy skills. Aside from that, what if Sarthis Idren did manage to escape with the crystalline? Where would he go? His companion Orini Dral had fallen, would it make sense for Sarthis to return to Riften alone?

While pondering on the whereabouts of his skooma, Alfgeirr slowly got to his feet and slouched towards the pile of clothing that lay by the cell door. They were rags, but it was certainly better than going about in his loin cloth. As he pulled the sack shirt over his head he flinched at the pain of his wound. If only he had skooma... Gloomily he pulled up his pants and peered through the iron bars, awaiting passing guards with a clenching feeling of agitation in his guts. When none would come, he felt himself panicking. To distract himself he started to inspect the other prisoners across from him.

There was a green-skinned Argonian to the far right, dressed in the same rags as himself, and a depraved-looking Imperial in the middle and a filthy wood elf right across from him. He did a double take. A female wood elf who was picking her lock! His heart jumped in excitement. Raising his hand to snatch the pick away from the woman with telekinesis, he stopped himself at the last moment. It was a fact that he was not talented at picking locks. What would become of his skooma if this – presumably - only lockpick broke?

He pressed his face against the iron bars, almost willing himself to go through it, and hissed: "Hey you, Bosmer lady!"

The wood elf ignored him and continued picking her lock. Though, his whispers had caught the attention of the other prisoners and it became unpleasantly silent in the blocks. Until one of them blurted out: "That damned wood elf has a lockpick!"

The Bosmer looked up in shock and quickly glanced towards Alfgeirr in what he recognized as panic. Though that look quickly dissolved when she realized he was the cause of her being ratted out, and she gave him a death stare instead. Alfgeirr blinked and unconsciously leaned away from his gate. Angry women were never a good thing, especially not when he was actually to blame. To divert his attention, he tried to find the taleteller among them, but was unable to look at the cells beside him. Even though he could not see the person, the taleteller's loud voice bellowed through the halls for everyone to hear. "Guards, guards! This vermin is trying to escape!"

"Shut up, blabbermouth!" Alfgeirr jeered and slammed his fist against the gate. "Why are you selling her out? It won't gain you anything, but there was a small chance she'd haul one of us out with her!"

The taleteller whom he couldn't see replied sarcastically: "Yeah right. As if a wood elf would come back for any of us! There are no elves here aside from her, you see? You can't trust elves when you aren't one!"

"Hey! I'm a Dunmer!" yelled one of the prisoners. It was then that the door flung open and an Imperial guard stormed inside. His presence instantly had the prison block quiet. With one hand on the hilt of his sword, the man inched forward, wary of every single prisoner around him.

"Where is this vermin who tried to escape?" he growled as his eyes darted around.

"There she is. In the last block," the taleteller willingly offered, to which the Imperial guard looked him over sceptically.

Alfgeirr pressed his face against the bars. "He's lying, sir," he said most convincingly. "We saw him fiddle with the locks. He's blaming the wood elf because she's in the last block. This way he'll have more time to sneak out of here while you waste your time interrogating her."

"Pah!" the taleteller spat. "I'm lying? Only a fool would believe you. You are faker than the so-called acceptance on necromancy!"

"Quiet!" the guard snarled. "I will find out for myself who speaks the truth." After that he grabbed the taleteller's gate and pulled it with strength. The gate rattled but did not budge. Realizing it was still tightly shut, the guard's attention turned to Alfgeirr. "What is all this? Did you lie to me, you filthy…Nord?" He hesitated at the latter part, not quite certain whether Alfgeirr was a Nord. He certainly looked the part, but there was something different about him.

"I did not," Alfgeirr denied and slightly withdrew into his cell. The guard followed him until the half-breed had nowhere left to hide.

"I know your kind," the Imperial snarled. "You are definitely hiding something. I should kill you right here!"

"Kill me for what? Hiding and lying? If that's the case you should slaughter all Kajiits of Tamriel. They are very fond of trickery, you see."

"Why you little!" yelled an infuriated Kajiit somewhere in the prison block.

"Keep your mouths shut!" the Imperial guard thundered. "I will see to it that you won't open that slanderous mouth of yours agai—"

An unexpected kick in the Imperial's back had him slam into Alfgeirr's cell gate with a vicious clank. And probably a broken nose too. His sword was yanked out of its sheath from behind and before he could react, the man was scraping his back against the gate and having a blade upon his throat on the front. The Bosmer female had apparently freed herself in the time the guard had been wasting to question the other prisoners. Alfgeirr was disappointed he couldn't see the guards expression, but having the man shoved against his gate was better than anything. He quickly reached out and grabbed the set of keys from his armour; this eluded a cry of dismay from the wood elf.

"Give that back! You have interfered enough, half-breed!" the woman yelled. Her dirty blond hair hung in thick lumps before her blazing eyes, the clotted grease a result of not having washed in ages.

The Imperial groaned in pain as the blade sank deeper into his flesh due to the Bosmer's anger. "You will never get out of here alive," he moaned.

"You won't either if you don't shut up!" the Bosmer sneered, turning her attention back to the guard and pressing the blade further down his throat.

Alfgeirr unlocked his cell, but the Imperial pressed against his door was blocking his way. With a small frown he raised his hand and up went the guard's helmet. Before the Imperial realized what had happened, the steel piece came crashing back down on his head, instantly knocking him out cold. He clattered to the ground in full glory. The Bosmer gaped at the unconscious body below her, then looked at the bloodied sword in her hand.

Meanwhile, the other prisoners became restless and started rattling their gates, some crying insults while others pleaded for their freedom.

Alfgeirr forcefully pushed the gate open, shoving the Imperial's body out of the way. "Did that cut his throat?" he asked indifferently and crouched down beside the guard to check on his neck. The cut was nowhere near fatal. "Just a scratch," he noted and started undressing the unconscious man. Some items he took off with his hands, others slipped off with alteration magic.

"You are wasting your time, half-breed!" the Bosmer exclaimed. "If you want to live, you should leave now. Lock the Imperial into a cell!"

Alfgeirr paused and looked up at the Bosmer. "What are youshouting for? It's fine now. We have a sword."

The wood elf looked at the bloodied sword in her hand, then scowled. "You are a fool if you think the other guards will just let us pass in this state."

"If you don't like my approach, you are free to leave," Alfgeirr retorted. "Who asked you to stay anyway?" He slipped on the guard's chest armour and winced at the pressing feeling in his chest. "Damn it," he muttered to himself and cast another healing spell on his ribs. Hopefully the Bosmer would leave. If his skooma was somewhere around here, he didn't want any more people knowing about it.

The wood elf gave him a hesitant look before her expression hardened and she turned away without another word.

"Don't leave!" prisoners cried out as the Bosmer female ran past their cells and they rattled their gates even more violently. She paid them no mind and Alfgeirr supposed that the taleteller had been right in this aspect. Though, he couldn't be bothered too much. Slowly breathing through his nose to calm his senses, he put on the heavy helmet. There might be a possibility to retrieve the skooma crystallines if it were here. Skooma… He smiled in at the gratifying prospect of smoking another skooma crystal.

"Help a fellow out!" The sudden plea pulled Alfgeirr from his daydream. It was the taleteller Nord. "Please, I know I've been a jerk, but I can see you have Nord blood in you…you wouldn't leave a fellow kinsman behind, would you?"

Ignoring taleteller, Alfgeirr looked at the tiny dagger in his hands. The Bosmer took the long sword with her, didn't she? Damn it. He grabbed the unconscious guard by his wrists and dragged him into his former cell. When he was about to lock the cell, a rumbling sound tore through the sky, followed by the ground quavering fiercely below his feet. Alfgeirr was barely able to stay upright. It sounded like something humongous collided with the ground. Earthquake? he thought while holding his breath. Though, earthquakes didn't sound like something massive hitting the ground... The moans of the prisoners simultaneously died down.

Alfgeirr looked to the ground pensively. It was then that he sensed a terribly powerful life force. His eyes widened in disbelief and he jerked his head up. Was that what had hit the ground just now?

All of a sudden the back of the prison block exploded in the most outrageous way possible, making it look like the walls had been made from sand. Bricks flew apart and darted around like deadly projectiles. Alfgeirr threw himself on the ground while covering his head. Just when he thought it couldn't get worse, fire gushed inside. Broken ribs or not, in this calamity he regained all his strength and leaped over one of the broken gates to hide behind a stone wall. He could still feel the heat that had licked his soles. As if all that wasn't enough, the ceiling started to crumble and bury the less agile prisoners.

"By Ysmir!" Alfgeirr gasped as he scrambled to his feet. His heart pounded furiously in his chest. Could it be true? He thought to himself in disbelief. Instead of running away, he found himself trying to steal glances of the powerful life force. Another quake followed and dust cut sharply into his eyes. This was no time to be blinded! He could hear something massive fly over their heads and forced his eyes open.

A mountainous red-scaled dragon flew over their destroyed prison block. Alfgeirr gawked at the sky. A dragon. How were they even alive? Excitement and uneasiness battled within him for dominancy. What did this mean? Was this an omen or a blessing? Rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand, he sighed in both relief and wear. He really needed some skooma…