Ascendance of the Dragonborn
Inspired by the video-game: TES Skyrim.
By: Cyrus Wheatley
Chapter 1: An Abrupt Start
21st of Sun's Height.
It was a serene summer night in Skyrim, the heartland of the Nords, a hardy folk. They were traditional people, who valued courage and strength, which matched the harsh terrain that they called home, full of towering mountain ranges and dense woodland. Despite the revolution that tore the land in two, both sides can agree that the night was a time of peace, and to be one with the land; both spiritually and mentally. An aurora danced in the star filled sky, like a graceful ballerina and its twinkling back-up dancers.
In the small mining village of Shor's Stone, its occupants were taking the night to a liking. The dirt path that ran through the village was devoid of people. It's Inn, a large longhouse, the Broken Pickaxe, usually filled to the brim with visitors, lay empty tonight, and across from it, the blacksmiths house, made of common granite and a thatched roof, a single window was lit, pouring into the road outside.
A man rose from his straw-and-hide bed and lit a single candle on his bedside table. His brown eyes were alert and shifty and his shirt sticky with sweat. This was the 9th time that he had this dream. What bothered him the most was that he could not remember what the dream was about? He always had a feeling someone was watching him, and an instinctual sense that a predator was right outside stalking his house in the shadows….
A rustling came from the bed and he almost jumped out in surprise. His wife, Sylgia, her tousled brown hair and her fair skin illuminating in the candlelight had rolled over to comfort him with a shoulder rub from behind.
"Love, go back to sleep. It was just a nightmare." She said groggily. Her hand fell limp and started to quietly snore. Knowing from experience that sleep will elude him, he slowly got out of bed, careful of not disturbing his wife. He trotted over to the washstand on the opposite side and faced the mirror.
He examined his face one more time, as he often did that as of late. Sylgia often chastised him for being too narcissistic and he should just marry himself, but he found it soothing to his jumpy heart. His dark skin and rough black hair, a trademark of his Redguard heritage, his dark brown eyes staring back at him. Grabbing the water pitcher and pouring it into the basin, he splashed his face and rubbed away the crust of his eyes. The cool water making contact with his face energized him and he dried his face with a rag hanging beside the mirror. He crept slowly to his cupboard and put on his trousers and belted tunic over his small-clothes made from leather, and donned his black working boots. Walking on the tip of his toes, he snatched his steel sword from the hook next to the door and slowly closed it shut. Adjacent to his and Slygia's room was his only son Francis, whom he can hear him sleep talk about wrestling a bear.
He proceeded outside and using his key, locked his house. The Broken Pickaxe, for once laid still, no noise drifted from within. A symphony of crickets and frogs from the nearby creek provided natures calming music for this night. In the distance toward the creek, he saw elk take notice of him and bound off into the foliage. The trees were bathed in moonlight and there was not a soul to be found, as if he alone existed on this lonely, beautiful world. He took the northern road toward Redbelly Mine, and soon the forest surrounded him. The wind blew gently through the rustling leaves and he signed with relief. But he could not shake off the feeling something was stalking him, like something horrible was aloof. Normally, these woods were safe; his boy Francis explored its vastness with his companions for days until they came back, tired but safe and sound. Now he walked thumbing the pommel of his sword with his right hand and tried not to let his nerves get to him.
The road took a steady incline, going up a hill. By the time he had reached the top ledge were the mine overlooked the valley and the village, he was short of breath. Spotting a boulder next to the doors of the mine, he put his back to it and slid to the floor. From here, the sounds of the night echoed and the wind was now a breeze. Weariness slowly enveloped him, rooting him to the spot. His eyes felt heavy, he could almost sleep there. He closed his eyes and the sounds faded away.
A loud roar pierced through his slumber and Cyrand Al'Akade abruptly woke from his sleep. He had dozed off and he scrambled onto his feet. Shouts rang throughout the valley, and the smell of smoke assaulted his nose. He zeroed onto the village, where black smoke billowed up to the sky.
Drawing his sword from its sheath, he ran down the road in the direction of the village. Not short after, smoke and ash filled the air, and Cyrand had to cover his nose and mouth with his tunic. He heard more screams and that edged him onward toward his goal. Then abruptly, through the smoke and ash, he saw Shor's Stone in a fiery inferno. The ground quaked from under him, prostrating him. A dark shadow flew over him and landed with a loud boom onto one of burning buildings. Cyrand looked up and could not believe his eyes.
A dragon, massive in size and maroon like blood night eyed him with malice in his eyes. A dragon, not seen in over millennia, was there before him. The beast opened his mouth to reveal razor sharp teeth, and a deep voice came from its gullet.
"The Age of Dragons has come. The World-Eater has arrived."