The Elder Scrolls V:

Skyrim

Dawnguard

Prologue

4 First Seed, 4E 188

On a steep hill overlooking the sea, high above the port town below, sat a sombre and weeping child, back red from the slaps of a ruler and welting from the strikes. The hill was a place for solace for her, where she could run to escape her worries and her life below in the rickety orphanage ruled by the tyrannical Madame—the very same who had caused such red burns on her back. Clutching her dress in her small hands, the girl wailed and hoped that she wouldn't be found or disturbed by the guard or a passerby from below. Her solace was watching the sea and hoping it wasn't as cruel as the towering woman she'd eventually have to go back to.

By the time her sobs had dimmed into sniffles, the sun had dipped under the horizon. The grass became darker and all became shadows to her. Only the lamps being lit below in the town were brave enough to cut through the darkness, but she didn't much mind it. Being alone didn't frighten her, nor did the eerie shadows that encompassed the Nirn. Indeed, the only thing that appeared to frighten her was the people who briskly walked the streets by day and prowled with daggers by night. People were two-faced and deceiving, and she wasn't at all sure she could ever trust their like, especially with such an example as the Madame.

Cloaked in the darkness yet perched like a bird on the rickety old fence on the hill was a strange-looking man, who was bare-chested and wielded a spear. His face was masked by the skull of a stag, upon which a set of antlers proudly extended. Around his waist were the furs of bears and wolves and deer, and his hair, if one studied it closely, appeared to be fur, though long and didn't halt at the base of his neck; it followed his spine until his mid-back, where it faded into tiny pinpricks of hair. This man watched the weeping child with a curious tilt to his odd head, his glowing amber eyes focused solely on her, then he extended his arm and dug his spear into the earth, aiding him in his sudden leap from the fence towards the girl.

Of course he made a sound, and it startled the little girl enough for her to gasp and spin to look at the strange man. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from her sorrows, were fixated in fear at the man who was wearing the darkness like a comfortable coat. She couldn't move. Her breathing became rapid again as her fear overcame her, and she began crying once more. The man came closer, and finally the girl summoned enough courage to tear her eyes away from the ethereal amber branding her soul. Her small fists lifted to her eyes and she made sure they were placed firmly overtop so she wouldn't have to look at the monster.

The man crouched in front of her as the child continued to weep, and he reached out a finger tipped with a black claw towards her. Carefully, he pried away one small fist from her eye and wiped his thumb over a fresh tear. The girl was confused but still frightened. He didn't smell like the sea, like all from around the coast did, so he was a stranger, and a fearsome one at that. He smelled like the forests from the north, or so the girl thought it would smell. His breathing was even and deep, betraying no emotion or thought he held. But he did take away her second fist and wipe her other eye much as he had done before.

He allowed the girl time to become used to his presence, then he sat cross-legged in front of her and examined her more closely. She was hiccupping and still crying, but wasn't trying to hide from him. In his thumb and forefinger he could easily hold the girl's fists captive, though he did so softly, hoping not to terrify the poor thing any further. He released his grip on her right hand with his left, then slowly reached around to her back. She flinched when he touched the welts and hiccupped even worse, so he released her other hand as well to tenderly stroke the dark brown hair on her head, hoping to ease her pain and worries.

He delicately touched her back again, his fingers feeling for every wound, and when he believed he'd found them all he summoned magicka to his fingers and meticulously applied a healing touch to her. Exhausted from her ordeal, the girl's eyelids drooped until she fell forward onto the man's lap. He continued to stroke her hair and heal her, overlooking the girl's trusting nature that allowed her to fall into such a blissful sleep with a stranger. Once he'd finished on her back, he picked the girl up in his arms and had his spear dissipate into thin air, much like he did to himself as he transported them both into the orphanage she currently belonged to. Paint was peeling from the walls and the man nearly stubbed his exposed feet on rusty nails, but he managed to manoeuvre around them while giving the room a distasteful scowl. He glanced around to see if anyone was looking and, ratifying that he would remain unseen, he gingerly lowered the girl into her bed, covering her and her little red dress with the blue sheet of her bed. He lowered his finger to her forehead, but hesitated. In her sleep she called out for her parents, the loneliness biting at her like the chill of a winter's morning.

The man smoothly placed his finger on her forehead and wiped away her memories of him, then influenced her mind to give her pleasant dreams for the night. Her expression soon turned from one of a lost little girl to something much better. He watched her for a moment, ran his right hand over his skull, then disappeared into the darkness, back to his realm.

He would continue to wait and be patient to accept her into his Hunting Grounds.

_/-\_

4 First Seed, 4E 202

A forceful snap sounded throughout the broad room, jostling the inky-scaled Argonian awake by pitch alone. It could make anyone cringe, but by then Milos had heard it so many times he was becoming appallingly accustomed to it. He rubbed his taloned fingers over his yellow eyes, blinked to stimulate them further with alertness, and idly reached for his goblet of room-temperature mead, which he frowned at.

The room, which was actually the entirety of a small shack just outside of the city of Winterhold, was cramped with himself and the Arch-Mage Javin Kelco, a Redguard who was currently pouring over the analysis of the night's events, his inkwell a bit shallow for his liking. He absently wiped some of his stray beard hairs out of his way as he scanned the documents with masterful brown eyes, and his fingers of equally dark skin made adjustments or notes where he deemed necessary. Milos was seated across from the mage at the table which they'd carried in a few months ago, the seats with it. His goblet was encircled by writing and reading materials that he tried not to eye for fear of the mage's excitement for chatter.

Another snap, that one a bit more violent, and it was accompanied by a pathetic snarl at the other end of the room behind the blue-green barrier that Javin had erected after yesterday's dusk. The early morning had Milos feeling groggy, but he chose to rest at another time. Promises were promises, after all.

The most recent fracture had Javin actually look up from his notes and glance over his shoulder, beyond that barrier of his. Milos chose not to follow his gaze and instead played with his goblet while he began to wait through the next hour of popping sounds that would come from that direction. He could guess it was around five or six in the morning.

Javin huffed and shook his head. "That time of day again," yawned the mage while he rubbed his eyes. "You brought the clothes, Milos?"

The heavy-set Argonian nodded and gestured to the corner behind the Arch-Mage to a beige backpack bulging with supplies. "Over there," he affirmed. Milos grunted to clear his throat of an annoying tickle. "Thanks for doing this, by the way. I know you're risking a lot for us."

The Arch-Mage grinned, which deepened his creasing wrinkles. His brown eyes twinkled with mischievousness and highlighted the rebelliousness of his youth. "Well, we were all part of a rather endearing quest, and I admit I've grown fond of you two. What kind of person would turn you away after offering something like this?"

"You're still taking research notes, though," the Argonian pointed out.

Javin waved him away. "Bah. I said I would, did I not? And I aim to aid, not to treat her like some sideshow monster. We both know she isn't."

Milos pursed his lips and resisted again not to look at the barrier when he heard another audible snap, but rather than a snarl, there was a whine. He could hear the lumbering mass, the short growl that ended every breath taken... He just chose to ignore it, since it was better that way for him. It didn't poke at old wounds from the past.

Leaning forward, the mage continued, "Besides, the poor girl's been through a lot. I think she needs a place where she knows she's safe, and that Dragon Priest isn't helping any. Has he shut up about that blasted Labrynthian yet?"

The Argonian snorted and rolled his incredulous eyes. "He won't until she takes him to find a way back to his own time, and he's been complaining more than usual because we keep getting sidetracked. Bandits chase off the hunters, we take them out. Giant destroys a home, we're there for the bounty. But every time we get close to that accursed place something always stops us from entering."

"Now that's one thing I don't miss," Javin admitted with a wry grin. "That priest ought to learn patience. Although I admit my surprise he hasn't tried to burn a city to the ground."

Milos shrugged nonchalantly, his armour jostling at the movement. He realized he'd need to tighten it again. "Well, he's stopped being so much of a haughty prick since Alduin was defeated, I'll give him that much. Now he's just an annoying fossil. I don't know why he gets to talk her ear off..."

The mage smiled and pulled his cloak a little more tightly around himself. With no fireplace in the cabin, blankets, furs and cloaks were the best they could do for warmth. Javin's action brought Milos to an idea, so he stood and closed the gap between he and his pack in three swift strides. He unbound the buckles, the metal cold to the touch on his sensitive scales, then removed a set of warm clothes and two fur-lined blankets from within, disregarding the mound of leather armour that was unceremoniously crumpled in a disorganized ball nearby. In the very nook of the corner was a plain-looking katana, recently sharpened, and with bronze snakes modelled for the guard. Blue and gold wrappings were wound throughout the hilt, marking it as a weapon of the ancient Blades, if the snakes or the shape of the blade hadn't already made it blatantly obvious.

Another several loud and violent cracks made themselves known as Milos walked back to Javin, his bundle in hand. The small noises he could manage; the loud ones had him cringe, however slightly. The Argonian lowered himself into his seat and began sifting through his acquired choices, all soft and light to his touch. Not as heavy as he thought they'd been when they were purchased...

"He's at the inn again?" chatted the mage.

It took Milos a few seconds to realize whom Javin was speaking of, but when he knew, he nodded. "Yes. Eduard's at the inn." He continued perusing the items. "She's pretty set on keeping those who know to a minimum. And since she thinks he'll be gone soon, we're keeping it from him, too."

Javin nodded solemnly. "Ah, yes. Understandable, of course. It's not every day one awakens to find out they're a Werewolf, now is it?"

"Or Dragonborn, for that matter." Milos placed the bundle on his lap and folded his dark hands onto it. "I'm pretty certain she has a target on her back. She's always gotten the short end of the stick, at least when it comes to luck. That's partially the reason why she was usually the one hit back at the orphanage."

Javin placed his elbow on the table and leaned his head onto his arm, his head turned in the direction of the barrier, where a large, dark-coloured mass paced incessantly beyond. Milos averted his eyes so he wouldn't see it.

"That's odd," mumbled the mage, his eyes locked on the lumbering and occasionally whining or snarling thing. "I haven't seen any scars on her for that..."

"They're there," the Argonian assured him. "They've just faded a decent amount over the years. And she hasn't been there in about two years to receive new ones."

The Arch-Mage shrugged, stretched his arms above his head and yawned loudly, the night finally taking its toll on him more forcefully. "Ah, just wait about twenty minutes and we'll have a fully-functioning Dragonborn who doesn't want to eat us. Though I can imagine she'll want some rest. Being awake all night and day would certainly not be good for her health."

Milos casually nodded in agreement. The snapping sounds were more frequent and certainly more audible than before, which had the Argonian uncomfortably playing with his goblet again just to draw his attention elsewhere. The duration of the wait seemed longer than it should have, and Milos began to cringe with each snap as the monstrous whimpers and whines slowly became recognizable human wails, groans and the occasional scream. Around that time, Milos unfolded the two blankets he'd retrieved and approached the barrier.

With a few careful, practiced motions, Javin dispelled the blue-green wall into nothingness. His robes, also fitted with fur, were drawn even more tightly around himself than his cloak to combat the cold. The morning chill was brutal and could seep into one's bones with relative ease, unhindered by clothes or cautionary preparations made earlier by the wearer, which was why Milos made certain to carefully tuck the Dragonborn into the blankets as securely as he could. He glanced down at her left hand and saw the prominent white scar running vertically through her palm, narrowly avoiding the bones between her forefinger and middle finger. He assumed the wound on her right side, just above her waist, looked about the same. A wave of regret washed over Milos as he remembered the night he'd inflicted those wounds on her, thinking she was not the monster she had to become every time Masser was full and glowing in the sky like a beacon of dread.

He realized he enjoyed the sun far more than he ever had the moons.

The Dragonborn's forehead was coated with sweat, her face flushed and pale while a fever raged across her skin, which was agitated by the presence of the blankets, but any refusal of them would leave her indecent, and she had enough presence in her mind to remember that being naked in front of her friends was not a particularly ingenious idea. A shiver of soreness, promptly followed by a nasty spasm in her bones, had her clenching her aching fists as the last few waves of discomfort melted away, allowing her ragged gasps to finally slow. Milos was there to stroke her back all the while to keep her aware of his presence. She slipped an arm out of the blankets and managed to squeeze his hand, while also using the frosty air to cool her burning body.

When it was all finally over, the Dragonborn laid on the cool planks of the shack and tried to keep her weary eyes open. Javin approached with all the clothes Milos had lifted from the pack and indicated for Milos to leave them alone. The Argonian frowned but complied, and gently stroked the Dragonborn's head once before he left.

Javin placed the cotton shirt on the floor in front of her. "Put this on, all right? You remember the drill."

She nodded solemnly and reached out for the piece of clothing while the mage's back was turned. She had to re-coordinate herself slowly, arm by arm, but managed it more easily than the last time. It was her legs that had always been worse off when dressing again; the feeling of there supposed to be a tail was a very confusing one, but it would drift away like a stick in the river come noon.

The shirt on and fastened, Javin very gingerly handed the Dragonborn her undergarments. And when she'd pulled them on (the breast band having to slip underneath her shirt), he handed her the cloth pants she'd picked out while he found something especially intriguing to watch on the roof.

Once she was fully dressed, Javin took the blankets to the corner of the room with the backpacks and then hurried back to offer her support to stand, even though she was already halfway on her feet. Shaky, but getting there. He positioned her arm around his shoulders and slowly led her to the table where papers were still strewn about. He lowered her into Milos' seat, then returned to the packs to grab salted venison jerky for her to nibble on, which she did very haltingly once he'd handed them over. Even though the Dragonborn's stomach was snarling, clearly furious for lacking the meal her other half had wanted to hunt for, she deliberately ensured she was only eating to keep her energy up, not to satisfy herself. She had become far too tired before, about two months prior, and they hadn't been able to leave the shack until the late afternoon while she rested.

Milos knocked and, hearing no resounding warnings, he entered the shack and put his weight against the door to close it firmly. He grinned quite cheekily at the Dragonborn, which somehow managed to accentuate the red markings that circled his eyes and travelled down to his neck, and he rubbed the ridges on the back of his head. She smirked for the first time that morning in response to him.

"Think you can make the trip to Winterhold?" he asked casually as he poured the last of his bottle of Honningbrew Mead into his goblet.

She nodded very moderately and ran her fingers through her hair. Her Nord-like pale skin was contrasted by the dark brown locks of her Imperial half. Her eyes, not dark like a typical Imperial but a cool and calm shade of green somehow from her Imperial mother, were locked onto Milos' goblet. The Argonian took a quick gulp then handed it to her, and she chugged it down as well as any Nord. Coughed a bit at the end, but that was to be attributed to her sore throat.

Milos took back his goblet and placed it on the table. She rubbed her eyes to fight off the exhaustion, and that was when Milos found an appropriate cloak for her to wear for the trek back. Unfortunately, that aided greatly in her grogginess. Frowning with only a corner of his mouth, Milos helped her to stand and adjusted the greatsword made of jade glass and gold trim on his back and got down on a knee.

"C'mon, 'Dragonborn'," he jeered in the friendliest manner he could portray. "I'll carry you to the inn."

Loathe to accept the offer but knowing her predicament, she nodded and carefully climbed onto his back. Milos gestured for Javin to open the door, and he did so once he'd grabbed the satchels in the corner filled with all their supplies. They were about a kilometre west outside of Winterhold, far enough to conduct whatever they needed to in private. In that case it was Taryn's lycanthropy, which took them all by surprise a few months ago.

Milos could remember it all with perfect clarity, even if months ago it was just a blur. Ambushed by a man who'd tricked her to commit a crime which led Taryn to flee to Skyrim, she and Milos were reunited when they were captured by the Empire during an ambush against the Stormcloaks. But at the execution in Helgen, a Dragon—no, the Dragon—suddenly attacked the settlement, and wrought havoc. That was when he and Taryn, together again after five long years, were thrust into an adventure with the fate of the Nirn in the balance.

Well, since their adventure had ended, Milos realized that Taryn was the one pushing to finish. First they needed to let Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun know that Riverwood was in potential danger of a Dragon attack, which led to them defending the city from one, and then Taryn discovered she was Dragonborn by absorbing the slain worm's soul. Then came the Greybeards' call, and because she was too curious about what was going on she heeded it. From there they met the Blades, delved deeper into the conflict tearing Skyrim apart and desperately tried to mend some of the damage to have a chance, however slim, to defeat Alduin the World-Eater, whose destiny as Bringer of the End-Times was to face against the Last Dragonborn. And while Taryn managed to defeat him, there was no guarantee he would not one day return. Although it would not be in their lifetimes.

"Milos?" Taryn croaked near his ear.

"Yes?" asked Milos, and he slowed his pace a step so the Arch-Mage could overtake him.

Taryn took a moment to respond again. Milos, from what he understood, knew it was difficult for her to gather her thoughts after... well, after that ordeal. He felt Taryn's arms tighten around him, and a few of her fingers hooked into the collar of his breastplate.

"I need a bath," she mumbled. "I feel like there's grime on every inch of my back."

"Ugh. And you let me carry you?" Milos jostled her playfully, but that elicited a sudden hiss from Taryn and Milos immediately halted in the snow. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "Are you all right?"

"... I'm bruised more badly than last time," she murmured, albeit reluctantly. "They're... already on my arms..."

Milos turned his head slowly and carefully, aware of the length of every horn on his head that could potentially connect with her forehead, and tried to sneak a peek. Sure enough there were dark bruises just overtop the bones of her arms that hadn't been there ten minutes ago. The previous month, Sun's Dawn, had elicited green bruising around her spine, her elbows, her knees, her heels and wrists, and a few along her jawline and nose. These ones were certainly worse.

"It's getting worse..." Taryn seemed to shrink a little, and Milos noticed her grip on his collar loosened. "More... forceful."

Milos carefully trod through the snowbanks with haste in his step to catch up with the Arch-Mage, who'd halted his advance to await them. Milos motioned that they needed to pick up their pace for Winterhold and gently put Taryn in the snow momentarily to switch her position from his back to his arms so he could jog without discomforting her new injuries, even if they'd mostly disappear by the end of the new day.

"Close your eyes if you want," Milos advised. "You're going straight to bed at the inn."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Taryn had already surrendered to exhaustion. Even the snow wasn't bothering her sleep, thanks to the cloak she was wrapped in. Milos cradled her with every care and stomped a path through the snow that Javin could follow in until they found the road just south of Winterhold. In mere moments of travelling north they located the city and slipped into the Frozen Hearth Inn under cover of snow and what shadows remained.

There was a severe lack of patrons within the establishment, and the innkeeper, a Nord on the older side of middle-age, was fast asleep in a toasty bedroll behind the counter. Careful not to make a sound even with all his heavy armour, Milos crept into one of the rooms they'd paid for at the far side of the hall and shut the door soundlessly behind him. Javin helped to lift the sheets so Milos could slide Taryn into bed, and when he made sure she was appropriately comfortable Milos bade Javin a good night and trekked to his own room across the hall.

Javin considered following, but lingered when he frisked over Taryn once more. The bed was chilly, not what her lingering fever needed, so he plucked the warming pan from the wall beside the door and let himself out in the direction of the smouldering fire at the centre of the main hall, just adjacent to the rooms. For a few moments Javin meticulously gathered coals and placed them within, then let the pan heat for a few moments more near the flame on the stone ledge built around the fire. Satisfied, Javin lifted and balanced it to Taryn's room and slid it under the sheets at the foot of her bed. He checked over her once more. The bruises that had formed were nasty dark splotches that seemed to hollow her face, giving it an almost sickly look. Sighing, Javin stroked her head once, straightened his robes and then left the inn for the College.