Saga of the Dragonborn

Disclaimer: I do not own Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or any of the content created by Bethesda, its subsidiaries or any other entity involved in the creation and distribution of this game. Any additional characters created by me were for expansion of the storyline within the context of this fanfic. Ask me if you want to know which ones they are. Reviews are welcome, flames will be laughed at. Enjoy!

Prologue

Ragnar crept through the night, his war-axe in one hand and sturdy shield in the other. Behind him followed twenty young warriors, all eager to prove their mettle to Galmar Stone-Fist and to Ulfric Stormcloak, who would soon be the true High King of Skyrim. The Empire, for so long the ally and great protector of its various citizens, had grown weak and contemptible, virtually overthrown by the Aldmeri Dominion. Ulfric had slain Torryg, the supposed High King in a display of Skyrim's unwillingness to accept the rule of the Thalmor. The civil war that erupted would determine the course of Skyrim's destiny.

"Careful now, all of you..." Ragnar whispered as they approached the location indicated on the map given to him by Galmar, Ulfric's most trusted advisor and general. "You can make fun of the Imperials all you want, but when it comes to fighting them, it will not be the romp you make it out to be. They are disciplined and determined. Be wary."

"You seem to know a lot about them," hissed one young warrior from behind him. "Is it just admiration for their skill in battle I hear, Thunderfist, or is it perhaps more sympathetic than that?"

Before anyone could reply, Ragnar had quickly and quietly turned around and was now confronting the young warrior who had impugned him. His considerable bulk pushed aside others who had followed him and he glared fiercely, his ice-blue eyes flashing in the moonlight.

"If you have something to say, Hrolf, say it with your weapon," he growled as loudly as he dared, given their proximity to the enemy camp. "Knowing your enemy is not sympathy for them, fool, and we seek to teach the Empire a lesson, not destroy it. If you are disputing my leadership of this mission, we can find a clearing nearby to test your resolve in."

Hrolf went pale, clearly intimidated by Ragnar's size and the deadly intent he could see in the man's expression. He had never believed the whole 'Dragonborn' rumour about him, but looking into those eyes, he had to admit there was something... inhuman, that he could not account for, a savagery that no Nord he had ever known could match.

He wilted and looked away.

"Now then, if you lot are ready to move on..." Ragnar declared with a scowl at the rest of them. He moved back to the front of the little troop of Stormcloaks and resumed their course through the darkness. The moons shone overhead and he was careful to use any and all available cover to make sure they were not detected as they approached the Imperial camp.

"How much farther, byothr?" asked Framr, another young man who had come on this, his first real engagement with the Imperials. He had been on a farm outside Rorikstead and his father, who was an old veteran but lame, had encouraged him to join the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim. He had, somehow, managed to pass Galmar's test against the Ice Wraiths and now stood in Ragnar's company, eager to prove his worth.

"Not much longer, just a few furlongs until we reach their perimeter." Ragnar replied, imagining the map he had been given. The Imperials were camped in the rugged foothills and mountains between Whiterun and Dawnstar, using the position to strike north into the Pale, disrupting communications and supplies between Winterhold, Eastmarch and the lands of Jarl Skald, who had thrown in his lot with Ulfric.

The war band crept forward, approaching from the east through the low, rolling hills. If Galmar's scouts were right, the enemy camp contained as many as sixty soldiers and camp retainers. Those were three-to-one odds and he was not taking any chances with his troops. Even if they won, he had no intention of losing men they would need for future battles.

He held up his hand, indicating their should stop. He then motioned for Eilif to come forward with him, moving closer to their target. Taking advantage of the rocky terrain, they skulked between the jagged formations, avoiding the light of the twin moons. Stendarr's Sorrow had a reddish tint that heralded a night of blood. He smiled to himself in anticipation.

They approached a clearing on the side of a hill and hid themselves behind a large boulder. Eilif remained still while Ragnar looked around the rock, peering warily. Not far ahead, a lone Imperial soldier was standing idly, staring at the sky. His keen blade was sheathed and his shield dangled on his arm. He was muttering to himself about the cold and how much he missed Cyrodiil.

Ragnar drew his dagger from his belt and crept forward silently, coming up behind his unsuspecting victim. The keen blade seemed to almost pulse in his hand, thirsty for blood. Taken from an assassin who had been sent to kill him and suffered that exact fate, he had kept it on his person ever since, as a precaution. He did not trust the weapon, sensing it would happily take his life in favour of anyone else's.

He darted in and used his terrifying strength to wrench his victim's neck back and then calmly drew the blade across it. The Imperial shuddered and went limp as his warm blood coursed over Ragnar's steel gauntlet. He kept the man from collapsing as he died and quickly dragged the body back behind the rock where Eilif waited.

"That's one..." said the young Stormcloak.

"Aye, and fifty-nine to go," Ragnar muttered, wishing it were darker out. The moons were bright and there was little chance of his war band approaching the camp unnoticed. He might have to resort to more particular methods. "We are not close enough to risk a pitched battle yet, for they could still call reinforcements if we do not gain surprise."

"Galmar Stone-Fist would probably just charge in at this point, would he not?" Eilif suggested. He was impressionable and rather intimidated by the gruff old warrior.

"Mayhap, but we have other advantages that he would not in this case," Ragnar replied, searching the body of the Imperial for anything useful. "Give these arrows to Fjalar and have everyone meet me up the hill behind that outcropping."

Eilif nodded and scurried back, staying low. Ragnar waited patiently for his comrade to disappear. What he had to do next could have unforeseen consequences if he was not careful. He examined his knife for a few moments, noticing that the blood had all but disappeared. He had never really stopped and dared to consider how the Daedric weapon consumed the vitae of its prey, but there was no denying its effectiveness. The black teeth gleamed and the ancient, hateful runes of the forbidden Daedric tongue glimmered menacingly. He understood that somehow the heart or essence of some being from the plane of Oblivion was bound into this weapon and it howled in outrage at its enforced captivity, forever to serve he who wielded the knife and ever aching for vengeance.

It must have served the Dark Brotherhood well.

But it was his now and he would use it to slay his enemies, swiftly and silently, like a shadow wolf. Whoever had sent the Dark Brotherhood against him would pay one day, but this was not the time. He sheathed the dagger and once again gripped the well-worn and comforting haft of his ancient axe, forged long ago by his ancestors when they had first come from fabled Atmora, alongside Ysgramor.

He thought of his arduous childhood, often spent on the run with his parents, pursued by the Imperials and the damned Thalmor, moving across Tamriel, eking out such a living as they could. Through all the hardship, Ragnar grew tall and strong, even by the standards of his Nord people. He was powerfully built but whipcord-fast and savage in combat. He was shrewd and knew how to seek tactical advantage over his foes.

From his mother, who had known the touch of Aetherius, he learned subtle tricks of the mind and how to bend thought and form to his will. He led the life of a thief when necessary, learning the arts of stealth and trickery as a child. He could cut a purse string from a wealthy man in broad daylight, or so his friends had told him when they had been moving through Hammerfell.

But then he had heard of Ulfric Stormcloak's rebellion against the Empire and the Thalmor, leading Skyrim to reclaim its birthright and freedom to worship Talos. With his mother's blessing he had left her in the care of the Khajiit caravans and struck out north, making his way across the eastern edge of the imperial province near the dark and forbidding mountains of Morrowind. He tried to enter Skyrim through the mountain passes around Helgen but was caught in an ambush meant for Ulfric Stormcloak.

Against all odds and because of the unlooked-for intervention of Alduin the Destroyer, he had escaped and fled into Skyrim. He could not have imagined how his own fate was intertwined with that of the terrible black dragon that had attacked Helgen that day, but it had become apparent that some cosmic or celestial mechanism more subtle than a Dwemer machine was at work.

He had come finally to Whiterun, where he found fellowship with the Companions, the heirs of Ysgramor's followers who established the first human kingdom in Tamriel. In feasting and fighting, he gained their acceptance, becoming mighty among them. When old Kodlak Whitemane died, he had named Ragnar his successor as Harbinger. The honour had been unexpected, but no one could deny the appeal of it, for he looked and fought like a warrior of the songs and sagas, likened to Shor, Stendarr and even mighty Tsuun.

Though he had come to Whiterun and managed to keep his identity a secret for some time, eventually he became embroiled in an attack on the hold by a dragon. He had slain the mighty beast and everyone present watched in astonishment as he took its very soul into himself. He was the Dragonborn of legend.

The rumour spread quickly, though few could understand or believe it. As edifying as he might have found such controversy, he did not want the attention at this point, for he had been made a thegn by Jarl Balgruf for his services and this would certainly attract the attention of the Thalmor. He sought the advice of the legendary Greybeards, who lived in their monastery atop the highest mountain in Tamriel, to learn what it meant to be Dragonborn. They taught him of his nature and his purpose, like those of the dragon blood who had come before him.

But the Greybeards were men of peace and inner reflection, refusing to ever turn their craft to war, no matter how dire the threat posed to Skyrim. He left High Hrothgar and headed to the relative anonymity of Riften, taking his new wife Camilla Valerius of Riverwood with him.

It was not long before his skills in subterfuge found use with the Thieves Guild. Though new to them, he had quickly risen in reputation amongst the members, even helping to expose and slay their former leader, Mercer Frey. He was rewarded by Nocturnal, the goddess of night, with the title of Nightingale, one of her trusted guardians and a driving force behind the Thieves Guild. Though he had little interest in continuing his nefarious activities in Riften, he found the connections useful and he had made a substantial amount of coin in the process.

Riften was dangerous in its own way, not least because of the absolute power wielded by the ruthless and patrician Maven Black-Briar, matron of the wealthiest and most influential family in the Rift. Though she was one of the people who backed the Thieves Guild, Ragnar did not trust her. He became acquainted with and a trusted companion of Maven's daughter Ingun, a young alchemist of considerable talent. The strange but naïve girl kept him informed of her mother's business and he felt safer for it. In a secret ceremony known only to Ingun, Camilla, Priest Malmar of Mara and himself, he took the Black-Briar daughter to wife.

He could not avoid notoriety forever, though, and was declared thegn of the Rift after his part in the final obliteration of a skooma ring that had plagued the land for years. Though the Thieves Guild and his fellow Nightingales did what they could to protect him, it was not long before the Thalmor heard rumours of the Dragonborn living in Riften. He bid his wives farewell and fled north to Winterhold, where he joined the Mage's College, hoping for anonymity.

In Sutborg he had honed the magical skills passed on to him by his mother, surpassing almost all others in his mastery of the arcane. He learned how to enchant, to imbue his will and other forces into things and gained a reputation as a mage of great skill. He visited Saarthal, once of the most ancient steadings of the men of old, destroyed by the Snow Elves before Ysgramor prosecuted his war of vengeance upon them for their treachery. He learned of the mysterious Dwemer, the fearful Draugr and the vile Falmer, becoming privvy to secrets long since forgotten by the Nord race.

Most of all, though, he came to understand the ties between the magic of Aetherius and the shouts of Dragonkind, of which he alone in this world could have true mastery. It was not the relationship itself between magic and the Th'uum that worried him, but the realization that dragons, the first children of Akatosh, were inherently magical and far greater threats to the world that anyone had ever guessed.

Except maybe Delphine.

Leader of the Blades, a near-extinct group of mythical dragon-slayers, she had met him while he had been questing to find the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the mighty Atmoran warrior-sage who had formed the Greybeards. Delphine had helped him to understand the history of the Dragonborn and how it was he who represented Tamriel's only hope of defeating Alduin and staying the destruction of all Nirn.

Together they had found the ancient Akaviiri temple called Sky Haven and within lay legendary Alduin's Wall, which explained how his forebears had defeated Alduin in an age long forgotten. This place had been their only hope, their only chance of unraveling the riddle of defeating the World-Eater.

He knew now that his purpose, but this could not be readily accomplished when Skyrim was in turmoil. Strong arms and keen blades were needed to help deal not just with the overbearing Empire, but the true power behind the Imperial throne, the Thalmor. He had lived his whole life on the run from agents of the emperor, yet he knew that he bore his fellow man no ill will. They were weak and needed guidance. If Skyrim were to throw off the shackles of Imperial dominion in order to show men the way, then so be it. Humanity would rally behind the Nords and defeat the Aldmeri, forever free of their bondage.

Here he was now, kneeling in the dark, his hand on his weapon, contemplating the death of Imperial Legion soldiers. Many of these men would be Nords, since Skyrim itself was divided in its loyalty. Skyrim had always been a part of the Empire, a solid and hardy bastion of fearless warriors who would face any foe with unflinching courage. Perhaps their loyalty was understandable, but he found it to be misguided. The Nords needed to break free so that they could lead the fight against the true enemy.

He drove all kindness and mercy from his heart. He had sworn loyalty to the Stormcloaks for in them he saw the best chance to revive Skyrim and bring about a new era, even if he did not entirely trust Ulfric. Battle awaited him and he would not fail in his duty. He crept quickly and quietly through the crags, arriving at the point where he had instructed his men to join him. Not far away, he could make out a detail of guards, talking casually and clearly expecting no trouble.

He felt the presence of his war band behind him nodded for them to wait on his order. They held back patiently, waiting to see what their commander would do. He calmed his spirit and remembered the words of Arngeir, most senior of the Greybeards.

"Breath and focus..."

Ragnar took a deep, cleansing breath, letting the alien yet completely natural words of the Dov race, the dragons, come to him and guide his actions. He sought out his enemies in the darkness as he expelled the roiling air from his lungs.

"Las yah nir..."

The world about him all but faded away, leaving only the life energies of every being in the region visible. He opened his eyes, which burned with dragon-sight. Several of his men shivered in discomfort at the sound, though it had been only a whisper. They could never understand, nor should they want to, for only a Dov could truly comprehend how to weave and unravel the veil and fabric of reality.

There was the camp. The tents were set up in small groups and the Imperial soldiers within seemed at ease. Ragnar's eyes narrowed as he used a series of hand gestures to break his men off into detachments of five and send them to their assigned targets. They would hit the enemy squads all at once, making sure that none would be reinforced.

His men loped off and he nodded to himself, having picked his prey. The commander's tent and command squad were located near the center of the camp. He would wait until exactly the right moment to make his move. His Stormcloak soldiers moved swiftly through the night, showing remarkable discipline in their pacing. The Imperials thought the Stormcloak rebellion a haphazard and ill-bred affair, fought by ignorant farmers, silver miners and drunkards who knew nothing of how the world worked. They thought these peasants would give up when things did not go their way.

Ragnar would prove them wrong.

The Imperials were enjoying their evening meal, chatting and telling tales of past battles, how the Stormcloaks were no match for them and that the inbred rabble would soon be slinking home to their farms in shame. One man pulled out a crude lute and began singing an off-key rendition of 'The Age of Aggression', always a favourite of the Legion.

Their laughter turned to shouts of surprise and panic when the Stormcloak warriors fell on them like wolves seeming to appear out of nowhere. Several men had died before the rest could even draw their weapons and prepare to defend themselves. The Stormcloaks bellowed and howled in fury, striking down their foes savagely. The melee whirled around the camp while the commander stood hastily from his meal and began giving orders. No green lieutenant was he, but a seasoned veteran of many campaigns across Tamriel. He had even fought in the Great War and been present at the siege of the Imperial City. He called out his orders with authority and his best warriors immediately took up their sturdy shields and keen swords, forming a line and charging into the enemy.

Once their momentum had subsided, the Stormcloaks found that their preference for two-handed weapons was beginning to work against them. Shields shoved them backwards while the lighter, quicker weapons of their opponents found gaps in their armour and they started to fall. Mimr went down with a deep sword wound in his chest while Hrolf tumbled backwards, dark blood gushing from the ragged tear in his throat.

The Imperial commander had ordered his men to form their defensive lines and fight as tight, cohesive units, their shields protecting one another from the worst of the enemy's blows. It was not long before their superior numbers would begin to show a difference, even if the enemy had surprise. The exceptional training and discipline of his Legionnaires would carry the day. This would be yet another victory under his belt against these damned Stormcloaks.

"WULD NA KEST!"

The sound was like thunder and the very ground shook as the words assaulted his ears. Out of nowhere, came a huge warrior like a thunderbolt, moving at a speed no strength or even science could account for. He hit the veteran warrior line like a hurricane, blasting it apart as he moved through it. So great was the force of his passing that he dragged men back with him, as if they were sucked into a whirlwind. They tumbled and bounced, their bodies cracking, breaking and contorting at odd angles as they were carried along in his wake.

The commander was thrown from his feet, stunned by the sheer magnitude of sound. Before him stood the terrifying Nord warrior, his ice-blue eyes piercing the night while his long, blond hair sprang from beneath his horned helmet like a wild horse's mane. His steel armour was covered in ornate runes and glyphs, his sturdy shield decorated with countless battle scars. In his hand was an axe of ancient design, a proud weapon of distinct lineage.

It could only have been the work of the fabled Skyforge. Never had the commander seen anything of such barbaric splendour before. In spite of his shock, his heart thundered with admiration.

One of his remaining veterans attacked the new foe, leaping in to defend his commander, but the huge barbarian warrior struck him down almost contemptuously, not even deigning to look at the man as he did so. His venerable axe simply flashed out and bifurcated him so that the hapless Legionnaire fell to the ground in two separate places. Wide-eyed, the commander stared in horror. Several moments passed before he realized that his entire contingent was destroyed. Only he yet lived, and probably not for long.

The massive Nord now gazed down at him, his unreal blue eyes harder than the giant icebergs that floated in the northern seas. He pointed down at the commander with his axe, his voice deep and sonorous as he spoke.

"See now, Imperial, that the Stormcloak rebellion is no mere petty uprising," Ragnar boomed, his voice still flush with the power of the Dov and the ground seeming to tremble in response. "You have betrayed Skyrim by submitting to the Aldmeri. Your courage is found wanting and we Nords will have no truck with an Empire that will not stand alongside us and die with us for the cause of freedom."

The commander's face coloured angrily as he replied. "You damnable fools!" he spat. "There is no honour in destroying us all to spite the elves! No one wants to live under their thumb but to die at their hands is pointless! You Nords will get us all killed! Even if you somehow win your independence from the Empire, it is not just you the Thalmor will punish, it is all of Tamriel. Your selfish rebellion will be the end of the people that your ancestor Ysgramor brought here in the most ancient of days!"

Several Stormcloaks laughed. "Beware, my brothers!" called out Gunnar, squatting down to look into the commander's face. "For we have here not only a warrior but a scholar, a man of letters and books! Hopefully his daughter will remember some of these lovely stories he taught her when I take her to bed!"

"Enough!" Ragnar said loudly, the ground shaking obediently at the sound of his voice. "Tend to our wounded and make sure that any enemy yet living are dealt with quickly and painlessly. I would not torture these men for fighting for their beliefs. Let them die with honour, as you would want to."

Knowing better than to contest their commander's will, the Stormcloaks set about the business of securing the camp and dealing with those yet living, the euphoria of having survived the battle now past. Ragnar regarded the Imperial commander flatly for several seconds.

"If you intend to kill me, at least allow me to stand and die with a weapon in my hand," the commander said levelly, no fear in his voice. "I am no match for you, I merely ask the courtesy."

"Get up," Ragnar said finally, his decision made. "I will not kill you. You will serve me better by being allowed to return to Solitude, to tell your beloved General Tullius that he has more than he bargained for in contesting our little rebellion. The Nords will never accept Aldmeri rule and we will face them alone if the Empire feels it is not up to the task."

The commander stood unsteadily and stared at his triumphant foe in wonder.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Ragnar Thunderfist," replied the mighty warrior. "And I am the Dragonborn."

"Dragon..." whispered the commander, his eyes distant. "Do... do we live in the books of legend? Do you claim to be Tiber Septim reborn?"

"Speak no such nonsense!" Ragnar snapped, beckoning several of his men over. "Bring me a horse and tie him to it securely. The commander has a long ride ahead of him."

Somewhat unsure of what their commander was doing but unwilling to disobey, the Stormcloaks brought a horse and put the imperial commander in the saddle, fastening him to it. Ragnar then leaned in and spoke several incomprehensible words to the beast before giving it a slap on the ramp. The steed neighed and galloped off through the night, heading west.

"What... what if he merely heads to Whiterun?" asked Framr as he watched the commander disappear. "He could easily raise the alarm against us and see that we are ambushed on the way back to Kynesgrove."

"The horse knows where to go," Ragnar said simply, casting his gaze around and assessing the camp. Four Stormcloaks were dead and another six were wounded but seemed able to continue on. "It will take him to Solitude and he will give my message to General Tullius."

"So now you speak to animals?" called out one young warrior in exasperation. Clearly his blood was still hot within him from the battle and his anxiety craved release. "What mythic nonsense is this, Ragnar Thunderfist? Are you a warrior of the Stormcloaks or a priestess of Kynareth?"

Ragnar saw no point in striking the fool down for his insolence, so he ignored the jibe. He had other matters to attend to. He closed his eyes and listened, stilling his soul and letting it sing within the bones of the earth, feeling the flow of energies as they coursed through him.

He felt, rather than heard, a roar of hate.

"Shearpoint," he muttered to himself. "Listen to me, all of you!" Ragnar said loudly, gathering his warriors to him. "This battle is won but now we must get you back to Windhelm, to report to General Galmar. The original plan after we destroyed this forward camp was to head north through the mountains and then due east, but you can no longer make it safely by Shearpoint Mountain."

"Why not?" challenged the warrior from earlier. "More warrior-scholars await us?"

"No, fool, a dragon does," Ragnar replied. "A dragon has roosted on the peak of the mountain. If you attempt to pass beneath him, he will see you and eat you before you knew you were doomed. No, you will need to move directly east from here at speed, skirting the hold of Whiterun. Move along the north bank of the river until you pass Valtheim Towers. Battle the bandits there or bribe them for passage, whichever you prefer, but get thee hence to Windhelm after that. It should take you no longer than three days, once you are past Gallows Rock, if you keep the lead out of your asses."

"How do you know a dragon occupies Shearpoint?" demanded the Stormcloak.

Ragnar had had enough. His fist last out and cracked across the boy's jaw, dislocating it and knocking him out cold. The snow steamed with the warm blood.

"Now you have to carry Hengist back," he growled, throwing a challenging glare at his remaining warriors. "Anybody else stupid enough to cause further delay?"

Everyone shook their head.

"Head back to Windhelm and report our victory," Ragnar reiterated. "Give my regards to Galmar and Jarl Ulfric."

"But... where are you going?" Eilif asked, somewhat confused. "Are you not coming back with us?"

"No, I must go somewhere else," Ragnar said darkly, knowing what awaited him. "You will need to press on without me."

"Where, then are you going?" Eilif pressed, watching as Ragnar strode away.

"To my home," Ragnar declared, walking into the western night. "I must go to Sky Haven Temple..."

Author's Notes: Someone challenged me to take on Skyrim, something I had previously promised myself I would not do. But a challenge is a challenge, so here we are. Rather than begin wayyyy back at the start of the story, I thought I'd pick up somewhere closer to the middle. Alduin's Wall has been discovered, our protagonist is the Thane of Whiterun and Riften and Harbinger of the Companions.

I am not going to make him leader of the Thieves' Guild nor the Arch Mage of Winterhold, not because he is not good enough at subterfuge or magic to hold these illustrious offices, but because he will be plenty busy as is without them. From a fictional point of view it also makes more sense to treat them as resources he can call upon rather than as additional jobs. I'll hopefully be able to work this all in seamlessly, so bear with me.

Yes, the hero is engaging in polygyny. The game has no such option (then again, the game doesn't let you remarry, either), but since the Nords are based on pagan Viking culture and pre-Christian Vikings were polygamous if they could afford it, I've made an allowance for this. No, this is not some deep need from studly gratification on my part, sayin' all dem bitches want summa dis, but allows me to work some details out and make sense of where I'll be going with this. Do not mistake this polygyny for misogyny. You've been warned.

The hero's name is Ragnar Thunderfist. This bears an unfortunate familiarity for anyone who plays Warhammer 40k. It is, in fact, coincidental. I had a childhood friend named Ragnar and it is my favourite Nordic name. Thunderfist just sounds cool and featured into a story I once wrote as a child. So please excuse any similarities, they are unintentional. You've been warned.

I've no particular intention of sticking strictly to the storyline as laid out by Bethesda in the game, so quite a bit of what happens might coincide with what we've all played but falls outside the boundaries that were given. Expanding upon the nature and use of the Th'uum will be a big one. I want shouts, even relatively ephemeral or mundane ones, to be devastating if used in a cavalier manner. Remember how the world shook when the Greybeards called the Dragonborn to High Hrothgar? That's what they should be like all the time, except for Aura Whisper, Throw Voice and maybe Kyne's Peace. I want Unrelenting Force to shatter windows, knock down walls and pummel mountains. Those caught in the jetstream of Whirlwind Sprint should be broken by the sheer power of the winds created. Marked for Death should have a terrible and agonizing physical effect on the body, as well as the soul. They're the shouts of dragons, the eldest children of the greatest of the gods. The world is not meant to easily withstand them. When Ragnar used Wuld Na Kest in the battle scene above, they could hear it echoing in the city of Whiterun, even though the fight took place in the hills between Whiterun and Dawnstar, far to the north. That is the power of the Dragonborn.

I hope you enjoy this little romp. It will be expanded upon to a predetermined ending I already have mapped out. I have several other fics on the go, including a Warhammer 40k/Deep Space 9 crossover, a fic based on the game WET and my long-running Dynasty Warriors story, The Young Conqueror and a spin-off of it. Feel free to leave reviews and critiques, just no trolling. You've seen what happens to trolls in this game.

Keep your stick on the ice!

- Management