Setting: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.
A/N: After spending a year running around Skyrim and causing havoc left and right with several dysfunctional characters, I decided to read up on the lore of the Elder Scrolls series. Tamriel has a vast and rich history, and I was so inspired that I created a new character for the sole purpose of becoming this fanfic's protagonist. And so I would like to introduce my contribution to the canon Direnni bloodline, Meleske Direnni.
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- I -
As she trudged the last few steps of the dirt path, blood-stained sword glinting in hand and muscles still taut from battle, Meleske Direnni was a sight to behold. And not necessarily in a good way. Or even in a visually acceptable way.
The Altmer woman's raven tresses fell in a tangled mess over her shoulders, with the shorter strands sticking out in all directions as if she'd been on the wrong end of a lightning spell. Her clothing, once among the finest embroidered silk garments in the Isle of Balfiera, now barely retained her modesty as it hung in shreds on her slender figure, covering only enough to stave off public ridicule. Slashes and first degree burns marred her fair skin from her face to her bare feet. Her slanted golden eyes squinted against the sun's reflection in the river running parallel to the path. Most of her senses had gone numb during her fight to escape, but her vision had grown more sensitive to the intensity of the light.
She had spotted the town from a ledge some distance back, and even though her opinion of this province was at an all-time low for yanking her headfirst into its lunatic fiascos, she could acknowledge when she needed help. The closer proximity to the water helped to cool her body temperature and soothed the worst of her burns. Two young children that had been playing in the road saw her approaching and quickly ran inside one of the houses. She finally passed beneath the watch bridge that marked the entrance of the town, weary and hoping to find a place to rest.
The first thing that greeted her was an old woman's shrieking. "Dragon! I saw a dragon!"
Meleske tensed as the image of the enormous winged reptile came to mind. Its sudden appearance had been both a miracle and a curse, having narrowly saved her from beheading by the Imperial Legion, but then it had tried to roast her along with every other soul present at that godforsaken human settlement. The nightmare of this dreadful excursion into Nord land would live with her for the rest of her days, all for a political arrangement she had opposed from the beginning.
A young blond man, revealing himself to be the screeching woman's son, sighed in exasperation as he faced her. "Dragons, now, is it? Please, Mother. If you keep on like this everyone in town will think you're crazy."
"No, the old bat has it right," Meleske cut in, far too irritated over her recent traumatic experience to bother with manners. "Your neighbors on the other side of that mountain back there are all likely dead."
In all honesty, sensitivity was not her strong suit, a fact she felt no remorse over when the two Nords turned to her with mixed expressions of shock and disgust.
"Who are you?" the man demanded, not quite keeping his eyes from flickering over her near-naked body.
The temptation to hack his skull in two was almost overwhelming. "Someone who survived that flying demon's annihilation of the town once called Helgen. Now, I am very tired and very angry, so if you could direct me to the nearest inn, I will promptly remove my indecent appearance from your sight." She directed these last words at the old woman, whose condemning gaze could have disintegrated a lesser person on the spot.
"Sven, take this filthy, pointy-eared trollop to Delphine and see if she can do something about her wicked elven impropriety—" The woman would have kept on with her racist remarks had the hem of her skirt not just been set aflame. With an ear-piercing scream, she batted at it furiously.
Although Meleske had been reserving the remainder of her magicka for healing herself in the privacy of a rented room, she decided it would serve a better purpose this way. "Say that again, you abominable hag," she seethed, lowering the palm that had cast the fire spell. "You are what, in your sixth decade of life? I am more than twice your age! If you do not begin respecting your elders, I will be forced to show you your place. Do you understand? Well?"
To her annoyance, the woman was too busy attempting to extinguish herself to answer. Finally, when her efforts failed to make any progress in snuffing out the flames, she turned on her heel and fled through the door of her house. Sven, who just stood there while his mother was burning alive, shook it off with a roll of his eyes.
"So dragons have truly returned? You'd best tell the Jarl of Whiterun. He needs to know about this," he told Meleske.
She scowled so deeply that the cuts on her face stung even more. "Why must I be the one to play messenger to your human rulers? Tell me something useful, such as a location where I might change myself out of this hideous look."
"Just down the road to the right is the Sleeping Giant Inn, where I work as a bard in the evenings," Sven replied. "I would escort you myself, but it's, well, right there and I'm scheduled to visit a beautiful woman named Camilla at this time. Although," he added, now openly leering at her exposed cleavage, "if you'd like to leave your room door unlocked after I finish my shift, it looks like you could use some company throughout the night."
"And it looks like you are begging to join your mother in spontaneous combustion," she returned acidly, outraged at his nerve. "Your further services are unnecessary, fiend. Besides, I don't like men shorter than me. Farewell." With that, she spun on her heel and stomped toward the building displaying the large tavern sign.
While the population here seemed rather small—and more so because she easily towered in height over most citizens of Skyrim—she drew stares from all the residents who were out and about. The blacksmith, who had been hammering away at his anvil, not only ceased his work but also dropped his tool into the smoldering coals when he caught sight of her. A hefty bearded man who had been leaning idly against the post in front of the local trading goods shop almost toppled over when she passed him by. A middle-aged blonde woman with an armful of chopped firewood froze in her tracks, mouth agape, when she was about to cross her path.
Imbeciles, Meleske thought savagely. Aren't these snow-loving neanderthals supposed to be accustomed to seeing the outcome of battle?
It wasn't until she threw open the door to the inn and almost collided with another woman did anyone bother to find words to address her presence.
"What in Oblivion!" exclaimed the individual she had nearly knocked over. This one was an older female boasting a sturdy build, shorter than average, with golden hair tied back in a sensible fashion. Meleske could tell at once that she wasn't a Nord, but a Breton.
"Out of my way, if you please," Meleske said in a tone as close to politeness as was possible for her when communicating with a human.
The Breton's eyes went wide with astonishment, and she didn't move as she took in Meleske's grimy and injured state. "What in the name of Akatosh happened to you? Come in, I'm the innkeeper, Delphine."
"Ah, excellent." Meleske stepped inside at Delphine's beckoning and found herself surrounded by the aroma of smoky firewood and cooking food. The only other occupant in the common area was the bartender, a surly-looking man with a permanently creased brow, which rose in question at her entry. To his credit, he didn't gawk like the other townspeople had.
"Orgnar, go rouse that useless lout Embry from his loitering and have him bring in bucketfuls of water from the river," Delphine ordered the bartender.
Orgnar grunted in compliance and headed for the door without a word. Delphine took Meleske by the arm and steered her to one of the vacant rooms for rent. "I'm not usually in the habit of offering aid to every stranger that shows up at my door looking like death, but I can provide you with a bath and spare clothes," said the innkeeper as she dragged a large shallow basin from beneath the wardrobe. "As for room and food, however, I can't help you unless you have the coin."
"I should have enough for a night's stay," Meleske assured her, referring to the small bag of gold still strapped inside the remnants of her corset. She had filched it from a soldier's corpse during the chaos created by the dragon attack, along with the iron sword she had swung around like a madwoman to defend herself against those trying to prevent her escape. She lowered the bloody sword onto the floor and winced as the muscles in her back protested the movement.
Delphine laid out a simple green and tan dress on the bed and waited with her arms crossed for the bathwater to arrive. Eyeing Meleske with a calculating look, she asked, "So what brings you to Riverwood looking like that?"
"It is a very long and cumbersome tale that I wouldn't dream of boring you with."
"Then skip to the good part."
I see. The price for the bath, Meleske concluded, is information. "Fine. If you must know, that senile old harpy residing at the edge of town isn't suffering the onset of dementia when she prattles on about seeing dragons," she said. "I was at Helgen three or four hours ago when the monster swooped down from the sky and burned the entire place to the ground."
Delphine's face suddenly became an impassive mask, but not before Meleske caught a shadow of cold dread move over her eyes. The action came off as a bit suspicious, but she dismissed it as the standard fear of legends coming to life. Personally, their existence didn't surprise her in the slightest. As an Altmer, she was related to people who had lived for centuries and claimed to have records passed down by their ancestors that documented instances of war with the beasts. And while she was considered at the brink of her adulthood, her knowledge of the difference between extinct and dormant races surpassed that of the most scholarly humans. Dragons had never been proven to have completely died out.
"A dragon, eh? Interesting. But you're not from Helgen, are you?" Delphine inquired, staring hard at her. "What's your name, high elf?"
"My name is Meleske, and no, I am most definitely not from anywhere in this awful, barbaric country," she snarled before launching into a lengthy, bitter tirade. "I was on a journey to Riften with my companions when our carriage was attacked at the southern border by a group of crazed mages. The only ones who survived were myself and one other, but she was mistakenly struck down by some delirious Stormcloak rebel running from the Imperial Legion. The rebels were caught, arrested, and carted off to Helgen to be executed, and I along with them," she finished lividly. "The irony of it all is that the dragon is what spared me from losing my head."
She would never forget the black wings that eclipsed the sun, the piercing amber eyes that struck terror far greater than that caused by the raised axe about to cleave into her neck. And when it opened its mouth… the sound that emerged had shaken her to her very core, rode her blood in such a familiar way that for a moment, she questioned who and what she was. Both her savior and her tormentor, the dragon had changed her fate.
Delphine watched her as she relived the memory. The silence stretched on, and by the time Meleske noticed the other's inquisitive expression, she realized she might have said too much. Choosing to change the subject, she opened her mouth and shifted to the right—a mistake, for the vanity mirror nearby allowed her a generous glimpse of herself. The sight just about stopped her heart.
Jaw dropping to the floor, she propelled herself forward until her lower abdomen hit the edge of the vanity's wood finish, hands pressed flat against the glass as if trying to make certain the reflection was truly hers. No wonder everyone had gaped at her. She was a walking terror, a horrifying slashed-up creature barely recognizable as her elegant and graceful self. In fact, if the Altmeri people had their own version of the draugr, she would be the poster child and point of reference for all artistic depictions. The damage to her beauty was extensive and, if she didn't heal herself soon, permanent.
She sent the innkeeper an imploring gaze. "I would sell my soul right now for a healing or magicka potion, so please tell me you have one or the other in stock."
"I don't, sorry," Delphine replied with utter frankness. "But," she added when Meleske seemed to die a little inside, "I have an Alchemy Lab that you can use to make one once you gather the ingredients."
Fantastic… I've already used my Highborn ability once today. I'll have to venture out like this just to collect the items to fix it.
Further conversation was interrupted by the sounds of heavy footsteps and sloshing water approaching. The bearded man from earlier appeared in the doorway, carrying a full bucket in each hand. He was followed by another, a curious male Bosmer, who carried two more buckets for her bath. Both men glanced at Meleske as she hurriedly pushed herself from the mirror, hoping they hadn't witnessed her pitiful "oh, woe is me" pose.
"Embry. I see you had to recruit Faendal to help with such a simple task," Delphine remarked with disapproval. "You could have made two trips, you know."
"He's the one who offered to help," Embry retorted. "Wanted to see the tattered up elf everyone was talking about."
"Tattered?" Meleske rumbled in an ominous pitch.
"I was just interested to hear that another elf was in the area," the Bosmer piped up as he set the buckets down next to the basin and brushed his long hair to the side. Turning to give her a smile, he said, "Greetings, friend. It's nice to see the face of an elven cousin here in Skyrim."
She nodded at him shortly. "Although my face is practically disfigured at the moment, likewise. I appreciate you delivering the water."
"What about me?" Embry asked with a frown.
"Oh. I suppose that goes for you, too, peasant."
His cheeks took on an offended flush, but before he could say anything else, Delphine pushed him and Faendal out the door.
"Just take your time. I'll be out here with Orgnar when you're finished," she told Meleske and shut the door with a firm click behind them.
Left to herself at last, the Altmer wasted no time in throwing off her shredded clothes and hopping into the basin. It was a crude way to bathe, as she was used to the luxury of a ceramic tub with flowing spring water, but certainly a more appealing option than splashing around naked in a river. For one thing, she couldn't swim. Then there was the slight issue with getting caught by aggressive foes during her most vulnerable state. And from what she'd seen of Skyrim thus far, there was no shortage of potential enemies—man and beast alike—to a member of the Direnni Clan.
The bath was both refreshing and painful to her wounds. With all the dirt and grime washed away, she could examine herself and assess the damage more clearly. Her arms and legs sustained the majority of the injuries, but her face and torso sported a fair percentage of cuts and burns. To her grief, she discovered that the severity of one particular slash running diagonally down her right cheekbone would most likely result in scarring.
"Bloody Oblivion," she muttered, turning away from the vanity mirror to reach for the dress on the bed.
There was no point in trying to make it to Riften now. Not only would she be several days late, she had lost all her money and documents during the attack on her carriage, and she was no longer presentable enough to fill her role in the arrangement. The thought both distressed and thrilled her. On one hand, she was trapped in this frozen wasteland with no sure way to send word to her family of her situation and had embarrassingly limited experience in fending for herself. Not to mention she had the social skills of a hacksaw. But on the other, this may be her chance to start over, to live her life without having to bend to the will of her clan branch.
She only wished she knew what the right decision was.
A commotion outside stirred her from her mulling and drew her to the window. From where she stood, she could make out a crowd gathered in the road, the angry buzz of voices telling her of a heated argument taking place. She was about to close the shutters and leave the Nords to their own trivial quarreling when she spotted a familiar uniform partly obscured by several bodies. The unmistakable blue sash and quilted armor brought a new boil to her blood as she recognized the Stormcloak garment. Whirling around, she banged open the door to her room—startling Orgnar at the bar—and marched straight out of the inn to join the crowd.
The volume of the spat reached a headache-inducing level as she elbowed her way to the center, ignoring her complaining wounds. When she saw who the Stormcloak was, and who he was arguing with, her temper snapped.
"YOU!" she roared, feeling the rush of her magicka restoring as her Highborn ability did the impossible by activating itself for the second time in one day.
Ralof, the Stormcloak who had killed her handmaid in his rush to lose the soldiers giving chase near the border, abruptly ceased his yelling and spun around to face her. Next to him stood Hadvar, the Imperial soldier who had sentenced her to death at the order of his superior officer, and he shut his mouth as well when his gaze drifted to her. Both men looked worse for wear, similar to the way she had before her bath. The entire crowd fell silent at her daunting presence. A fire spell ignited in both palms and infused her with a menacing aura that sent many people several steps back.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't finish what that dragon started," Meleske thundered, hands itching desperately to blast them.
A light touch at her shoulder held her back. "Wait, friend. They both have family here," said Faendal.
As if that mattered to her. She despised these inferior beings with a passion. Even though in the back of her mind she knew her prejudice was born from her parents' repetitive vocal condescension of the human race, they had done nothing to convince her that they deserved her respect. And after suffering at the actions of these two cretins, they had shown her that they didn't even deserve her mercy.
Yet, as she prepared to take out her frustrations on their insufferable hides, her body froze when the two children she had seen while approaching Riverwood, a boy and a girl, threw themselves in the line of fire to defend the men. They regarded her with expressions full of defiance and challenge, their small arms rising over their heads to present themselves as tiny human shields. She saw the trembling in their fingertips, the fear that gripped them even as they held their ground courageously before the towering Altmer woman. A collective gasp rolled over the townspeople around them, followed by the whimpering of the mothers.
Meleske didn't hear them. She didn't think as she looked the children straight in the eyes and drew back her hands. A woman screamed when the flames in her palms surged upward in a blinding explosion, illuminating the darkening sky with an intensity that rivaled the dragon's own breath. When the radiance subsided, the children remained in their positions, shaken but unharmed, while Meleske lowered her hands and charged her way out of the crowd.
She loathed them all for testing her this way and watching her fail. Through her hatred and fury, something inside had betrayed her. It was a horrible sensation of unwanted compassion, of conscience she had never known before. It influenced her judgment, flowed through her in airy whispers of virtue.
It felt like humanity.
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A/N: I completely reworked this chapter from its first draft, and am much happier with this version. Thank you for reading! There will be more of the sharp-tongued Meleske Direnni to come soon.