A/N: Thanks to those who've reviewed this, it means a lot to me. Criticism is appreciated, as is encouragement.
DualKatanas: Thanks, you've spotted several major flaws which I though I'd fixed. If you read the chapter again, you'll notice I've read what you have to say and I've incorporated it. The Bethesda dialogue is something that I'll make use of at points, but I try and work around as much as possible. I'm planning to develop Damian's personality over the next few chapters, as he's still wary of pretty much everyone at the moment.
Chapter One – Escape from Helgen
Blackness. A slow, throbbing drumbeat. A rattling, screeching, shrieking noise. Shaking, bumping, grinding against the walls of his sanity. A small light, gradually getting brighter and brighter. A flash, then clarity.
Damian Loche awoke sitting forwards, staring at the wooden planks of a cart. Groaning, he went to push himself into a upright position when he noticed his hands were bound. Blinking twice, he looked around. The cart, in the middle of a convoy of three, was rattling and bumping through unfamiliar territory. Looking up, the midday sun blinded him as he saw the sky. Wincing, he cracked an emerald eye open, enough to see. Mountains and snow-covered hills surrounded the valley they travelled through, and green trees lined the road, with several large rocks dotting the landscape.
Rolling his neck, Damian studied the other occupants of his cart. Two of them wore battle regalia, although the colours were not ones he was familiar with. It rang a bell though, as he felt like he'd seen the colours before. Judging by their fair hair and large size, he guessed they must be Nords. One of them had been gagged, presumably for shouting abuse at the guards. Across from the gagged soldier sat another Nord dressed in little more than rags and looking somewhat miserable. Looking at the cart's driver, the battlemage noticed the distinctive uniform of the Imperial Legion. So they were still in the Empire, meaning it could only be one of a few places. It almost certainly wasn't his home, High Rock, as he knew most of the landscape having travelled around a lot. He was unfamiliar with Cyrodiil, however he knew that there were no mountains like the ones surrounding them, leaving one option.
Skyrim. He was in Skyrim.
"Hey, you're finally awake." A voice came from beside him, and he turned to look at the source. One of the soldiers had noticed him, and was now looking at him with bright blue eyes. "You got caught too, huh? Trying to cross the border when you walked into that Imperial ambush, the same as us," he explained. The brown haired Breton nodded unsteadily.
"I... yes, yes I was. However... I cannot quite remember why..." he said, his voice quivering slightly from being unconscious so long. The man nodded, evidently understanding.
"I am Ralof. I would shake your hand, but that's a little hard at the moment," he chuckled. Damian let out a small grin, before looking forwards along the road, where a town lay.
"Where are we headed?" He asked. Ralof glanced along the road before replying.
"Helgen, by the looks of it. And when we get there, we head to Sovngarde..." he said, a slight sadness in his voice. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here," he continued "I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." Still staring towards the town, Ralof fell silent. As they passed the gates, the lead escort called out to someone, someone who Damian quickly saw was General Tullius.
"Tullius," he breathed, his sharp eyebrows hardening. Ralof turned his head sharply at this.
"Damn him and his Legion. If I were free, I'd strike him down where he stands," the Nord growled, an almost feral look coming into his eyes. Damian shrugged.
"If he hasn't done anything to me, I have no reason to do anything to him," he grunted nonchalantly, fervently wishing he had enough stamina to draw on his considerable magicka reserves. Ralof turned back to face the Breton and sighed.
"He tries to keep Skyrim under the yoke of the Empire, where it should belong solely to the brothers and sisters of Skyrim," he explained. Damian nodded, now recognising the uniform.
"Stormcloaks." Damian uttered the single word as though it was taboo. Before the Stormcloak could reply, the cart stopped in the centre of town. Wearily pulling himself to his feet, the mage sighed in annoyance. "End of the line," he grunted. Ralof nodded and stood. As the two before them hopped off the cart, Damian and Ralof followed. One by one, the prisoners were called forwards. The battlemage was left standing alone, evidently not on the list. One of the guards looked at him, then to the list, then back at him.
"You're... you're not on the list. Who are you?" the Legionnaire asked. The scrawny Breton, having to look up at the burly Nord, rolled his eyes before replying.
"Damian Loche. Former battlemage of the Imperial Legion Second Company. I'm a Breton, in case you're too thick to tell," he snorted, brown hair flopping over his face. The soldier looked towards his captain.
Glaring at the Breton, the soldier looked at his captain.
"Captain, he's not on the list, what do we do with him?" he asked uncertainly.
"Forget the list, he goes to the block anyway," she ordered.
Damian growled angrily, his voice a gutteral snarl.
"Typical Imperial asininity. Send an innocent man to the headsman's axe, worry about the paperwork later. Bloody fools," he spat. This earned him a punch to the gut from the captain, who then pushed him over to where the prisoners were stood waiting for the axe to fall. An odd sound echoed around the valley. A sort of ringing, combined with a hint of feral anger. Ignoring it, the priestess of Arkay standing next to the axeman began the final rites. A Stormcloak snorted in derision and strode forwards.
"For the love of Talos, let's get this over with." he shouted in annoyance. The priestess glared at him, before nodding to the captain. Pushing the man down onto the block, she looked at the headsman, who began to raise his axe. The man grinned.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" he barked the sentence out as the axe came crashing down and cleaved his head from his shoulders. Flopping lifelessly over the block, his head rolled into the basket and blood flowed freely over the dark stone. The strange sound came again, bouncing around the walls of Helgen. Ignoring it once more, the captain motioned for Damian to walk forwards. Sighing, he made his peace with the gods and moved to the block. In short order he was shoved down onto the hard stone, facing the headsman. As the man began to raise his axe, Damian saw a shape flit between the tower. A cry of despair came from the watchtower guards, and Tullius yelled out. A huge beast landed on top of the tower, great red eyes glaring down. The sight of it chilled Damian to the bone as a Stormcloak screamed.
"DRAGON!"
Dragon. The very word itself was enough to send shivers down a man's spine. And now here, in the middle of Skyrim! It seemed almost impossible, and Damian wouldn't have believed it had someone told him. Yet here it was, looking like a giant bat, dark and malicious. The dragon opened its' mouth and a terrible roaring came from its' throat, accompanied by a gust of flame. Rolling himself off the block, he crashed to the floor before dragging himself to his feet. Seeing Ralof motioning towards him, he ran towards the Stormcloak, who was holding the door of another tower open. Throwing himself inside, he crashed to the floor as the door slammed shut. Picking himself up again, he glanced around. Three people were in the tower with him. All of them Stormcloaks. One was nursing his arm on the floor, another was Ralof, and the third was the previously gagged man. Ralof turned and spoke.
"Jarl Ulfric, was that a dragon, from the legend?" Ulfric nodded before replying.
"Aye, but legends don't burn down villages. We need to leave." he said, his voice as clear and deep as a pool. Damian, realising the other men had gotten their binds off, looked down at his hands. Still bound, alhtough only with cloth. Focusing, he pulled magicka into his hands, forming a ball of fire which quickly burned the makeshift cuffs off. Flicking the ashes of the bindings off, he ran up the stairs, where another Stormcloak was trying to clear rubble. Sensing the danger before it happend, Damian threw himself against the wall as the dragon's head crashed through the side of the tower, mere metres from his head. Letting a jet of flame wash over the soldier, it withdrew and took off again, presumably to cause more chaos. Looking through the hole, the battlemage saw the open roof of the inn next to the tower. Backing up a few steps, he judged the distance, then ran and leaped towards the building. Crashing through the few timbers that still stood, he hit the floor and rolled forwards before jumping again out of the other side of the building. Hitting the ground, he noticed the Imperial soldier who had taken his name earlier. Noticing the Breton, the soldier shouted:
"Get behind me if you want to live, prisoner!" Damian snorted. He didn't need help from the men who had just tried to execute him. The dragon landed a scant five metres away from the pair of them, and puffed it's lungs up ready to breathe fire. Dashing at it, he ducked into a roll just as it breathed out, sliding through the beast's claws and out the other side. Dashing into the cover of a wall, he watched as it took off again.
Hopping over a pile of rubble, he ran towards the door of the town's keep. A figure stood at the door, beckoning him onwards. From the colour of his armour, Damian could tell it was Ralof. The door was ajar and as he approached, Ralof shoved it all the way open and vanished inside. Running in after him, the Breton slammed the door shut as he bolted through.
Dropping to a knee, he breathed heavily. He hadn't run like that since his Legion days. Stumbling forwards slightly, he rose to his feet and glanced around. The Imperial keep was nothing special, the standard, droll fare of rounded rooms and iron doors. A dead Stormcloak was slumped next to a table at the opposite end of the room. Ralof was crouched over him, muttering.
Damian kept his distance for a moment, so as to allow the man to pay his respects. As the sound of clanking armour reached his ears, he motioned to Ralof, who had also heard it.
"Imperials," he hissed "Quickly, hide by the door." The pair of them flanked the door, Ralof gripping an axe and Damian with a ball of fire smouldering in his fist. As the Imperials unlocked the door and walked through, they flurried into action. The Nord rose up and smashed his axe into the neck of the legionnaire before him, decapitating the poor fool. Damian, not taking any chances either, slammed the palm of his hand into the second Imperial's face. The searing fire in his palm erupted into his enemy's face, melting flesh from bone and dropping the Imperial captain like a rock. Ralof nodded to him.
"A good kill. Search the bodies, maybe we can find a key for the other door." he grunted, before checking the corridor the Imperials had come from. Turning the dead captain over, Damian grimaced as he saw the burnt, twisted mess of what had previously been the woman's face. Yanking a ring of keys from the dead captain, he scurried over to the second door and tried each key one by one. The first was rewarded by no more than a click, as was the second. Third time lucky, the key turned and the door swung gently open. Removing the key and hooking the ring through a hole in his ragged tunic, Damian motioned to Ralof.
"Come, we should move. We have to get out before that dragon brings the whole place down on us." Ralof nodded in agreement and kicked a door down, moments before a pile of rubble crashed down in the corridor behind them. Darting through, they crashed straight into a pair of Imperials. In his haste, the scrawny battlemage summoned up a spell and unfortunately, it was a lightning spell. It immediately backfired and hurled him into the wall. Ralof gutted the first Imperial, before turning around to deal with the other one. Dispatching the Imperial, the Nord hurried over to Damian, who was embedded in the wall with a dazed expression on his face.
"What happened?" Ralof asked, concerned. Shaking his head and pulling himself out of the wall with a bit of help from Ralof, Damian blinked a few times, clearing the stars from his vision.
"A... slight error in judgement. I have this odd disorder where although I am a mage, I can only cast fire related spells. Anything else backfires horribly and... well, you've seen the results," he explained, wobbling slightly. Ralof looked at him, somewhat confused.
"So, you can only cast fire spells?" he said, re-affirming it to himself. Damian nodded.
"Yes, anything else either blows up, turns on me or otherwise goes horribly pear-shaped," he grunted. "Now come, we should be off. I'm fine, it's just a minor shock." Walking around the corner, he swiped several potions from a shelf as they passed. "Might need these at some point," he explained. Opening the door, they continued downwards, seeking a way out. Hacking through several Imperials, a brood of Frostbite spiders and sneaking past a very large bear, they exited the caves under the keep into the cold winter sunlight. A shadow passed over them and they instinctively ducked behind a rock as the dragon flew over and away, no doubt to find another town to terrorise. They waited a minute or so, then came out of the shadow. Ralof stretched, sighing.
"Ah, the smell of freedom is a good smell indeed. Come, my sister Gerda lives in Riverwood, not long down the road. I am sure she will allow us to stay a while and catch our breath." he said, before beginning to walk down the road. Damian, not having anything better to do, shrugged before following him. Maybe he could find a ride back to High Rock from this Riverwood place.