Hello everyone! My name is Kyle Hexer, or just Hex if you like, and I'm here with another story. I'm honestly bored out of my brain right now and have no idea what to say in this A/N, but I'll try to give you the run down. I wrote this cuse I'm bored, I want to, and mostly for a bit of writing practice. Its the story of my Skyrim character and all his adventures, with a bit of sass, stupidity, anger issues, sarcasm, and vulgar language thrown into the mix. A bit of a serious, but also for shits and giggles story. I honestly dont know how often I will update this, if at all, that mostly is determined by how much people like it, and I edit as I write and only skim-read afterwards to check for any major mistakes. So sorry if there are spelling errors, I tried my best... sorta. I'm planning to include all sorts of adventures and quests in this, along with the DLC content. If you want me to keep going, a review would be nice. And if you like, mention any quest you would like to see him go through and I might add it in at some point. But I will decide how my character handles it mostly, feel free to mention any funny happenings that you would like to see.

Warnings for this story. Lots of sass and sarcasm, as well as a whole lot of swearing and bad language. My character is quite vulgar with his choice of words and swears a lot. May also include mature content, sexual themes and such, but will only hint to it in the beginning of the story. Will only include detailed smut if I get enough people asking.

Anyway, enjoy the shitstorm of Daedhrogon's life since ariving in Skyrim. Dont forget to like and review!

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Chapter I.

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Well isn't this an utterly perfect pile of shit.

Being painfully jostled awake with a pounding headache ensured that Daedhrogon's morning wasn't going to be a pleasant one. Made worse by the rolling carriage that made his stomach flip. He wanted to throw up.

What in the name of Akatosh happened?

His eyes hurt, his ribs hurt, his stomach hurt. Hell, just about everything hurt! Especially his wrists, head, stomach and even his goddam arse. This disgusting carriage was giving him painful splinters.

He didn't want to open his eyes, but he forced himself to, only because the bindings around his wrists were cutting into his hands. Where was he, why was he tied up, and why was he cold? What happened to his armour, his clothes? Where was he going?

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a Nord man, also tied up, wearing the distinctive Stormcloak cuirass. Oh that was just fabulous. He was captured along with some Stormcloak rebels. This wouldn't end well…

The man driving the carriage was in Imperial garb, a soldier no doubt. Maybe he had a chance to get out of… whatever it is that was going to happen. He hoped the imperials would help him.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border right? Walked right into that imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." Said the Stormcloak.

Daedhrogon turned his gaze to the other man beside the rebel. Unremarkable and dirty. He paid the man no mind.

"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You there... You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Indeed. If that ambush hadn't been there on the road, Daedhrogon could have slipped right over the border and away before anyone realised what he had done, what had happened. He had almost made his escape, but here he was. The two other males spoke for a few minutes while Daedhrogon tried to get a sense of his surroundings. It was cold, and they were passing through a forest, over hills and mountains. Somewhere in Skyrim, definitely…

"Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King." Came the Stormcloak's voice.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?" cried the Horse Thief.

Now he turned his attention to the third man in the carriage, right next to him. Indeed, it was rebellion leader. The bastard who claimed to be the rightful ruler of Skyrim, who murdered the former High King. And made life a living hell for all those involved in the civil war – be it either because they were soldiers, or they were commoners just living in the wrong places, caught in the middle of a battleground.

Ulfric looked over at the three of them, first the Horse Thief, then the Rebel, and then at him. Daedhrogon bared his teeth and snarled. He had no love or respect for the Stormcloaks, especially their leader. Ulfric glared back at him, clearly displeased at what he saw.

And why would he be pleased? Ulfric was seated right next to a High Elf, the same kind of people who made up the Thalmor, who had captured and tortured him. And true to the stigma, Daedhrogon was a soldier for the Aldmeri Dominion – well, former soldier, he supposed. Why would the rebellion leader like him? At least the feeling was mutual. And thank the gods the man was gagged, he didn't want to hear the man rant and curse him simply for being there. The man had quite a Voice if the rumours were true.

The carriage continued on, towards a walled village adorned with imperial banners. It looked more like a fort than a village. Soldiers were everywhere, including a few Thalmor, thank the gods! Maybe they would help. They looked out for their own kind… right?

"Look at him, General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Daedhrogon shouldn't be here, wherever they were. It was obviously an execution, and they were all being sent to the block. Maybe if he told the elves who he was, who he worked for, who his father was, he would be spared of this fate. He hoped.

The carriages moved and finally stopped. He had a perfect view of the chopping block, and the headsman who would carry out the executions. Some Thalmor were there, but they made no move, not helping, not even letting on if they had even seen him.

One at a time, their names were called. Ulfric was first, then the Rebel named Ralof, then the Horse Thief Lokir. The coward ran in a desperate attempt to save himself, but still got himself killed with an arrow in the back of the neck, the fool.

"Anyone else feel like running?" dared the Imperial Captain. The man holding the list looked up and finally noticed him. "Wait. You there. Step forward. Who are you?"

Daedhrogon stared defiantly at the man, steeling his resolve before answering. "My name is Daedhrogon." The imperial looked confused at the name, most likely he had no idea of its meaning.

He was known as 'Shadow Wolf' among his elven kind. Not that these idiots would know. Stupidly ignorant. But it mattered not, not when he would soon be dead. The wolf had ended his last hunt, and the shadows had failed him when he came here. He didn't deserve his name at his time of death.

"You're not with the Thalmor are you?" he asked, mostly to himself.

"I'm a soldier for the Dominion. I'm sure there has been some kind of mistake."

But the imperial didn't listen to him, he merely turned to face the captain and speak with her about his fate. He was sent to the chopping block, no questions asked. No one was there to say otherwise. None of the elves stepped forward to claim him. He was alone.

He wasn't going to escape this, he was going to die here. His luck and fortune had finally ran out.

Had he managed to piss someone off so bad that they wanted him dead? Did he somehow offend one of the Aedra, or gods forbid, a Daedra? Maybe he shouldn't have freed that prisoner, maybe he should have just followed orders and tortured the man instead. But no, he just had to make a stand against that Thalmor when he didn't have a plan. His foolishness would surely get him killed. Five days of running hadn't ensured his escape, he merely exchanged one death for another.

A priestess of Arkay said their final rights, before she was interrupted and the executions began. Too soon, he was called up, but a strange, distant roar echoed through the mountain. It didn't deter the executioner, and he was forced forward, and onto his knees. Sticky blood covered the chopping block, smearing all over his face and ragged clothes. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.

His only regret was that he wouldn't get to see Ulfric's head roll before he would follow suit.

The axeman prepared to swing…

A black shape took flight behind the watchtower with a mighty roar.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" screamed General Tullius.

"Dragon!"

Time seemed to slow down, and speed up at the same time, meteors and hellfire rained down on them, knocking people down to the ground either stunned, crushed, or burned. Someone gabbed his arm, and he was pulled along through the crashing sounds and falling debris. He was mercilessly pulled away from the chaos and towards the closest watchtower, barely being able to see through the smoke in his eyes. Ulfric was inside the tower before he was, damn bastard must have put his own safety above everyone else's, whereas all of the Imperial soldiers were valiantly fighting outside. Someone yelled and told him to go up to the top of the tower, he obeyed and made a run for it, leaving the Jarl where he was and not giving a single damn about the man's safety.

The massive, hulking black dragon did not give up its relentless attack, and burst its enormous head through the wall and charred everything and everyone to a crisp before it left to find more victims.

Daedhrogon looked down, where there was an opening in a building below him, leading back down to the ground, and closer to escape. He jumped, hit the ground hard, and continued to run. He went past soldiers and archers firing upon the beast, as if it would do anything. Mages shot flames and ice spikes towards it, but nothing seemed to affect it.

Ahead of him, the Rebel, Ralof, and the Imperial soldier, Hadvar crashed into one another, arguing about their escape. Within seconds, they both ran in different directions, with Daedhrogon following the Imperial. He wasn't going to put his fate in the hands of a Nord who would without a doubt hate elves for merely existing, he would rather trust in the soldier, even if he was the one who sent him to the block.

So they ran, escaping the horrific destruction wrecked upon them by the dragon, and into Helgen Keep.

The barracks were empty, everyone being already outside and risking their pointless lives. All the better for the two of them, since they could take whatever they needed. Roars echoed through the stone walls, reminding them of the dragon attack outside.

Hadvar cut his bindings loose so he could move his arms around and get the feeling back in them. After gods knew how long of being in that carriage he was thankful to be able to feel his fingers again.

"Have a look though those chests for armour and weapons, we are going to need them."

Daedhrogon went to the closest chest and looked inside. Imperial armour and an iron sword. Tacky, but they would do. So he pulled them out and started to put the armour on. Hadvar just had to choose that moment to look over at him as he pulled off the ragged shirt and started putting the armour on, loosening the buckles so it fit. Damn thing was too tight.

"Quit ogling! We need to find a way out of this burning shithole. So get your head in the game so we can come out of this alive, and then you stare all you like!" snapped the High Elf. While he already knew he looked handsome, he didn't need a distracted soldier in his company.

The soldier finally snapped out of it once he strapped the blade to hip and started walking off. The two went down hallways, fighting Stormcloaks and picking up things on the way that could be of value. Further inside the tower, they found the torture room, with two imperials there, completely oblivious to the fact that a dragon waged war above them. While they all spoke together in a group, Daedhrogon snooped about the place, grabbing anything that could be of value, including a few scant pieces of gold, lock picks, potions, and even a dagger. Small knives had saved is life on many occasions, so he wasn't going to pass on one now, even if it was horrible.

He and Hadvar moved on, battling more Stormcloak soldiers as they progressed, until they made it to the caves underneath the keep, barely escaping being crushed as the dragons fury carried on even down here. After what seemed like forever, after battling giant spiders and even a bear, he saw sunlight again, and the forest and trees.

They stayed in that spot long enough until they were certain the dragon had left for good, before they jogged together down the road to the closest town. After what seemed like hours, they made it. A little village by a gushing river. Riverwood it was apparently called. Hadvar invited Daedhrogon to his uncle's home to help him get on his feet. The Blacksmith was very welcoming and let him take a few supplies to last some time, but he would need more, and better equipment the longer he stayed in Skyrim.

They spoke about the dragon attack at Helgen, and how they managed to escape death from fiery jaws. Eventually, the adrenaline from the day settled down along with the conversation. They were both tired and worn out.

"So where are you from?" asked Hadvar. The elf looked up at him from his tankard of ale. "I'm from Elsweyr." He answered.

"What's a High Elf doing living there?" he continued. Daedhrogon sighed. The man looked like he was going to continue prying. "I was born there, raised with the Khajiit. But I don't live there now, since I'm here. Obviously."

"You said before that you were an Aldmeri soldier. Do you work for the Thalmor?"

"No. I support the Dominion, but not the Thalmor rule. I might have to answer to them, but I don't always like it. You got a better chance of getting me to worship Talos than bending my knee willingly to the Thalmor and all their ideals."

Yeah, believe it or not, not all Altmer were Thalmor, and not all of them supported the governing body of the Dominion. Those stupid stereotypes created by the Nords were simply that. Stereotypes. So he didn't fit the mould of what was considered to be a 'normal' elf, who gave a damn? He grew up with the Khajiit for Akatosh's sake. If he had to admit, he was more like one of the cat-men anyway, instead of your typical snobbish elf.

"Well, what are you planning on doing next? Return to the Aldmeri Dominion? Go back to your old home in Elsweyr?"

"I have no home in Elsweyr anymore, my Elven family left many years ago to fight in the Great War, my Khajiit family died out decades ago. Shit like that tends to happen when you have an Altmer's century's long lifespan." His tone became cold, signalling that he wanted no more questions on home or family. They were a sore spot, and he wouldn't speak of them with a mere soldier.

With that, they decided to retire for the night in the Blacksmith's house. Daedhrogon barely got any sleep at all, contemplating what he would do the next day. It always paid to be prepared, even when faced with uncertainty. So he made a plan: ask the smith if he could help around the forge to see if he could get some better fitting armour and a better weapon, then go over to the town trader and stock up on whatever supplies he could get. He didn't have much gold, but he hoped that the meagre stuff he had would be enough to feed him until he could make it to the next city. If he had to resort to manual labour, he wouldn't like it, but he would do it if it meant survival for the next few days.

So the next morning, when he woke at first light along with the smith, he followed him outside to ask about helping. The Nord was glad for the extra assistance and got him working before the rest of the town was awake. By the time the sun was well and truly up, Daedhrogon had crafted his own set of armour that actually fit his tall frame, thank the gods, and had a much better dagger to use out in the wilds. It was no elven sword, but it would do.

So, fitted out in his new gear, he wandered over to the traders, determined to get as much gold as he could for the imperial armour and few scant belongings he managed to scrounge up from the day before. Overall, it wasn't much, but enough to make sure he would survive for a few more days.

He paid little attention to what the man and his sister were arguing about, but filed away what little information he did hear. They apparently lost some solid gold item of theirs when bandits raided the shop. A claw of some sorts… didn't matter much at all.

He even bought himself a journal and writing materials to record his dealings with people. Old habits die hard, he thought. His father had taught him to keep a record of everything he did, just in case anything happened. He could recall information back easily, or have evidence of an alibi if his… less than honest dealings got him into trouble.

Within the hour, the High Elf was off, out of the town towards the Hold capital of Whiterun, with a message, and the intentions of surviving even longer than that tiny village would allow.

By nightfall, he had made it, but was so exhausted he could barely stand. Sighing, he trudged over to the inn, the Bannered Mare, for food and a bed. He was forced to count his coin carefully before purchasing anything, even if the room was only ten gold, he was careful not to go overboard. In his past, he had earnt enough gold that he didn't need to think about how much he was spending, but now, what he had in his tiny coin purse was all he had. His meagre means to survive.

Dejectedly, he asked the inn keeper if there was anything he could do in the morning to earn more gold. She told him that he could always go outside and chop up wood for the fire if he needed gold, other than that, there was nothing else.

Silently, he thanked the gods that he didn't have to resort to other means for gold. He wasn't that desperate.

He quietly thanked the inn keeper for the bed and meal, and retired up to his rented room. He had only just taken off his armour and boots before he practically fell onto the soft bed and fell asleep.

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The next morning, Daedhrogon slept in to try and regain some of his strength and energy. But as the villagers slowly trickled in for their morning meal, he couldn't stay asleep for any longer. The smell of roasting meat and fresh produce tickled his nose and drew him up and out of bed. He was practically drooling from the smell as he put his armour back on and climbed down the stairs.

Most Nords looked at him funny as he went passed, obviously not liking the appearance of the High Elf. They grumbled as he walked passed them, muttering things like 'bloody Thalmor' and 'snobbish elf scum' under their breath. Daedhrogon growled lowly to himself, but chose to ignore them in favour of food.

A Redguard woman served him some food in exchange for a few gold pieces and left him be, so to serve other customers. As soon as the elf was finished his meagre breakfast, he went outside to find a way to earn back somevof the gold he spent.

He returned a few hours later with sore hands and a sling full of firewood for the inn keeper, who paid him a good, honest amount for his work. He hadn't been siting there long, after only just buying himself a drink, when a Nord woman strode up to him, itching for a fight.

"Hey, soft-gut! Your kind aren't welcome here in Whiterun, get lost!" she said loudly, catching the attention of the other patrons sitting around the inn.

Daedhrogon slowly turned to look at her, clad head to toe in steel plate armour. She must have thought she stood a chance, simply because he was only in simple leather armour.

"I haven't done anything to you, so why are you bothering me?" he asked her calmly. His voice was low and calculated, almost daring her to step out of line.

"High Elf scum. You Thalmor have no place in the world, so why don't you just leave?" she spat. "Go find some helpless sop to accuse of being a heretic and fuck off!"

Then she made the horrible mistake of smacking the bottom of his tankard right into his face. The liquid splashed all over his face, into his hair and over the front of his armour. Daedhrogon froze in shock, as did everyone in the inn.

When the elf opened his eyes, they were alight with fury. And with a growl that could put a Khajiit to shame, Daedhrogon shot up out of his seat, sending it toppling to the floor, and stood right up against the woman who dared insult him like that.

He growled and bared his teeth as he looked down at the woman, who refused to back down even as he towered over her by at least a head.

"You might want to think about taking that back before things get ugly. Not only have you spilt my drink, but you've ruined my armour, and pissed me off. Stand down now before you get hurt." He growled.

"I don't think so, soft-gut!" she yelled. Her fist swung right for his jaw, which he dodged in the last seconds. His blood boiled at the impending fight, and when she swung again, he blocked it and hit back, hitting her in the stomach with an uppercut.

The female Nord bellowed in anger and swung at him again, aiming for the weak points in his armour. Daedhrogon hit back, and soon, a full on bar brawl commenced. The Elf was hit a few times in the chest, stomach and head, but the Nord wasn't spared either, getting punched mercilessly by Daedhrogon's powerful strikes.

By the time the woman crashed to the ground defeated, her armour was splattered with blood, and she had a few scratch marks marring her face. One of the perks of being raised by Khajiit, the Elf thought, was that you get taught how to use your nails like claws.

Daedhrogon had numerous bruises and sore spots from the Nord's punches, but all in all, he came out better than she did, despite all the pain. But that didn't mean he had won everyone's respect for beating the warrior, in fact, almost everyone looked at him angrily and with contempt. Angry at everything that had transpired, Daedhrogon grabbed his knapsack of supplies, rightened the toppled over bar stool and dropped a few coins on the bar table.

"Sorry 'bout the mess." He grumbled before stomping out the door. He had business to attend elsewhere anyway.

Trying to get away from the glares of everyone, he jogged up the steps to the Jarl's castle, Dragonsreach. One glare directed at the guards and they let him pass, but once he made it inside, he was confronted by a Dunmer woman, demanding who he was and why he had come. He simply replied, but with an air of contempt that he had information about the dragon attack at Helgen, and he was allowed to pass.

After a brief discussion with the Jarl, he was directed towards the court wizard and told about a job. He didn't intend to go delving into a dangerous ruin on mere rumour, but as soon as gold was brought into question, he relented. He was too dependent at this point and simply couldn't pass up the opportunity even if he wanted to, so with a sigh, he accepted the job.

.

A day and a half later, the elf trudged back up the steps of Dragonsreach, heavily limping on his left leg and using a stolen iron sword as a crutch. Scratches, bruises, nasty cuts and spider bites marred his skin all over, and he looked like he hadn't slept for a week. With every step, he was dripping blood, mostly from his injured leg and right arm. The last bloody Draugr got him pretty bad on his arm, and it took all his effort not to scream from the pain.

"The gold had better be worth it…" he mumbled under his breath. Angrily, he climbed up the gods-forsaken steps to the Temple of Kynareth to hopefully get something for his injuries. After lying on the uncomfortable stone bed for a few short hours and drinking a few healing potions, which took a massive cut out of his coin purse, he could walk properly again and started the rest of his trip up to the Jarl's palace.

"After I get paid for all this crap," he said to himself, "I'm going to go back to that inn and rent that room for a few days and not move until I'm back to normal. I deserve a weeks' worth of sleep after all this shit."

But sadly, he wouldn't get the chance. After angrily dropping the Dragonstone Tablet on Farengar's desk and demanding payment, he was dragged up to see the Jarl, who had been informed about a dragon attack on the Western Watchtower. The man asked that the Elf go with Irrileth to deal with the dragon.

Daedhrogon practically howled in irritation. He had already met with one dragon and barely lived through that ordeal, he didn't want to do it again! But alas, he was dragged into it anyway and followed the Dunmeri woman down the steps of Whiterun to meet with a squadron of guards, ready to fight the beast despite their fears. With a rallying speech and battlecries, they raced out the front gate and towards the Western Watchtower.

The gold will be worth it. He thought.

The small fortress lay in ruins, fires blazing everywhere with a few injured and dead guards lying about. No doubt a dragon had been here; Daedhrogon just hoped it wouldn't come back.

But when a fearsome roar echoed from the sky, and thundering wings signalled the arrival of the dragon, the High Elf cursed loudly. Of course it would be back! The Aedra must have a grudge against him, he thought.

Already tired from his last so called adventure, dragged out into a battle that he had no real reason to be in to fight a gods-damned DRAGON of all things! Some almighty being must hate him. Who was it, he wondered? Did Akatosh have something against him? Was Stendarr showing him a twisted version of mercy for what he did before having to escape to Skyrim? Was it Talos who was playing around with him because the Thalmor outlawed his worship? Who in the name of the eight Divines had something against him that they would make him deal with two dragons for crying out loud?!

The silently ranting Altmer was almost roasted alive by the dragons flames as he stood there, arguing with himself. Breaking out of his stupor with a yelled 'Shit!' he ran right for the tower, unslinging his pilfered hunting bow from his shoulders. The top of the tower had no cover, but a perfectly unhindered view of the hulking, scaly beast as it flew overhead and attacked the guards below.

Selecting an arrow from the quiver on his back, he took aim as the dragon swooped down to breathe its deadly fire towards those battling it. Daedhrogon calmed himself as best he could, and let his body go through the motions of aiming the bow. His muscles stretched, his breathing steadied, the fletching of the arrow touching the side of his face.

He aimed. The dragon dived. He fired.

The dragon screamed.

His steel arrow piercing its left eye, the beast lurched, and crashed to the ground in a flurry of wings. It was back on its feet in an instant, using its folded wings as forelegs to move around. With its one good eye, it searched around for him, finding him on the top of the tower. The dragon roared and prepared a fiery blast, the elf realising in a split second that he had no cover.

Heart beating like a war drum in his chest, Daedhrogon grabbed another arrow, took aim, and fired again. The movement took barely a second. Thank the gods he had been trained by the Bosmer of Valenwood when he was younger, or he would be cooked alive by the fiery inferno. The second arrow buried itself in the dragons other eye, its breath of flames cut off by its agonised shriek.

Before it could shoot its deadly flames at him, Daedhrogon raced down the stairs of the tower, briefly stopping to see the beast blundering around below him through a break in the wall.

He wondered, just for a moment, if he could take it from surprise from above. After all, did a dragon, master of the sky, ever look up to check for enemies? Theory dictated the answer be: no.

Daedhrogon grabbed his sword and dagger, steeling his resolve and taking a few steps back to get a running start. Then he charged, and jumped right out of the window of the tower.

He soared through the air for but a mere moment before gravity took over, and he was falling, falling, right on top of the dragons back. He grunted with the force of the landing, desperately trying to stay on and get air back into his pained lungs.

The beast roared in anger and thrashed around, trying to dislodge him, but the elf held on for dear life, sinking his blade into the creatures hide. Snapping jaws swung around to bite him in half, and he barely managed to jam his sword into the beasts mouth before he was eaten. It reared back in anger, and wrenched the sword out of his grasp, stomping around in the hopes to throw him off.

Daedhrogon was left with only a dagger to save himself, while the dragon thrashed and screamed bloody murder. With a thundering roar, the Altmer grabbed the dragons horn to stabilise himself, and drove the dagger deep within the creatures damaged eye socket, right into its brain. The beast shuddered and spluttered before its limbs gave out and it crashed to the ground in a dead and bloody heap.

He tumbled to the ground with an agonised moan, grasping at his hurt limbs and ribs, desperately willing the pain to go away. He couldn't move, and no one dared go near him in case the monster wasn't dead.

But when the dragon's flesh slowly burned to ash, leaving nothing but its skeletal remains behind, all the remaining guards backed up in fear and horror, the only one not able to move was the elf, as he lay next to the dragons burning carcass.

Bright, blinding, golden light erupted from the creature and flew around Daedhrogon's prone form, engulfing him in the warm glow before being absorbed into his golden skin. He gasped in shock, and then in pleasure as the dragons soul caressed his wounds, numbing all the pain and refreshing him with vital energy.

He felt like he had just woken up, completely refreshed, with the same buzz that a generous amount of wine and moon sugar gives you. It felt like ecstasy.

No drink or drug could ever have made him feel that good. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced in his century long life. Slowly, the feeling dissipated, leaving him feeling slightly hazy, and the pain of his injuries being nothing but a small ache.

He groaned, and slowly moved into a sitting position, gazing at the white bones of the dragon at his feet, the skull lying with its jaw agape too close to him. Slowly so he wouldn't get dizzy, he stood up and stabilised himself by leaning on a piece of the broken tower.

All the guards were gaping at him and the body of the dead beast, well, he assumed they were gaping, those stupid looking helmets completely hid their faces.

"What the fuck just happened?" cried one of them.

Daedhrogon shrugged, completely oblivious. "How the hell should I know?"

"You killed it… and devoured its soul…" muttered one of them. "You- you cant be… Dragonborn."

The elf laughed, but immediately stopped hen his ribs twinged in pain. "What the hell is a Dragonborn? And what do you mean 'I devoured its soul'? That's just stupid."

One of the guards without a full face helmet spoke up, the wonder and fear in his eyes easy to read. "I grew up hearing tales of the Dragonborn, the legendary dragon slayer. It was said he had the blood and soul of a dragon, but had the form of a mortal. They were said to be the only one who could kill dragons and Shout like they do."

Daedhrogon started laughing, clutching his side in pain. "Whatever skooma you're on must be good stuff if you came up with that!"

"How can you joke at a time like this, after everything that just happened?!" cried the Dunmer woman. "This is madness, all of it. Dragons, Dragonborn elves, its all madness, and the fact that you can joke about this makes it worse."

"Look," growled Daedhrogon, instantly sobering up. "I've had a pretty messed up couple of days, running for my life and whatnot. My life had already been screwed up before I even landed in this half frozen country, and now that all this Merethic Era shit has started happening – dragons and all that Dragonborn crap – I'm pretty sure that some Devine has a grudge, either against the world, or against me. So forgive me if I'm acting a little crazy to you. All this fucked up crap is making me lose my sanity!"

Done with his rant, he groaned and leant back against a large section of stone, trying to stop from crying out. The guards started talking to each other quite loudly about everything that had happened, and were talking about him. Daedhrogon tried to block out the sound, until one voice caught his attention and forced himself to listen.

"Legends say that the Dragonborn can Shout like a dragon can. If you really are the Dragonborn, then you should be able do it. Go on, try to Shout, that way we can see if this isn't some Devine joke."

Daedhrogon couldn't help but look at him with a sneer. Of course these Nords wouldn't be happy with the fact that an elf – a High Elf no less – had somehow taken the title of one of their fabled warriors. It must have been a joke of some sort, but the Altmer half wanted to piss them off and prove that he was what they thought, just to see the looks on their faces.

However, he was curious. Absorbing that dragons soul, they said it was, had done something to him. He could feel it. It felt like some part of him had just been revealed, like a new set of memories. He could feel a new type of energy, a different form of power than he was used to. Raw, undiluted power.

Was this what a dragon felt? The strength of a thousand men, a fiery inferno, wind under their wings and the sun on their back. He could feel the memories of the dragon whose soul he devoured. Tangibly feel them. One part stood out, a memory of the beast using its Voice to Shout an army down, without fire or ice, just the force of its roar.

He could hear that sound, echoing around inside his head like a war drum. The force of the roar. The sound got louder, filling his entire being until noting but that word was left in his mind.

Force.

His lungs ached and screamed at him in pain, his throat burned and his head pounded as a wave of pain and power washed over him. He wanted to scream from the feeling, it hurt so much! He wanted to shout to try and block out the pain in his lungs. He wanted to roar… and roar he did.

FUS!

The force of his shout startled the soldiers around him, knocking a few to the ground with its intensity. His lungs burned, his throat felt raw, and he couldn't breathe. Irrileth openly gaped at him. The maskless guards looked at him in fear, horror, and revulsion. Their fears were true: an Altmer was the Dragonborn.

Well isn't this an utterly perfect pile of shit!

"Ah, fuck me!"