Dragonborn.

That's what they called me. Most inhabitants of Skyrim expect the mighty Dragonborn to be a proud Nord of deep Atmoran roots, or at least some kind of human. The thought of a Dark Elf being the hero to stop the endtimes was, rather off-putting to the general population.

But whatever their thoughts, it didn't bother me. Too little time to worry about such inconsequential things, like pride, which depending upon the person, can vary from depraved to well-earned.

As I stated before, I didn't care.

I still don't care.

But that's not what this story is about. This story is about me, the Dovakiin, or Dragonborn in the common dialect. My name is Daedrale Vir, denied applicant of the "great" House Redoran of Morrowind. As someone of average intelligence might suspect, I am Dunmer. I am a male, two-hundred and thirty-seven years old, give or take a few months, and what the Thalmor refer to as, in their words, "a Terrorist, whose capture is of the highest priority". Many in Tamriel consider my livelihood as dangerous: The Dark Brotherhood, the Thalmor, the Morag Tong, a couple Houses of Morrowind, and a finger-count Daedric Princes, to state a few. Needless to say, I have a reputation most consider worthy of great thieves and pirates of old, but my agenda only seldom partakes in such things.

This is the story of how the Last Dragonborn came to be, from the old country Morrowind, to a little town the Nords called Helgen.

*This will be a continuous series based on my modded playthrough of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. This story will delve into my main character's, Lord Daedrale Vir, entire life. From his birth, to fighting Alduin, to other stuff most people do in a Bethesda Game.*

**Also, this won't be in the first-person for the rest of the story. One time thing for the intro.*