Author's note: Well peoples, this prologue is the first instalment of what will likely become a pretty drawn out tale. As it stands, I intend to follow the general Dragonborn quest line for most of the story, so if you haven't played the DLC, be warned there will be spoilers ahead. Apart from that, I may tweak the content rating of this fic in later chapters to an M. As a forwards warning, there will likely be strong violence, sex and/or femslash in later chapters. Apart from that, I do not own Skyrim and any of its content, but I do own Rushes, bless her. Reviews are welcome.
Sound. The sound is deafening. Bludgeoning her senses through sheer, ferocious momentum. It swamps her form, carving runnels of invisible force down her hard body, but it weathers the siege easily.
She pirouettes, spinning. Seemingly without effort her wings catch an upwards current of air and slide into it, lazily floating up above her adversary, every ounce of her conveying blatant mockery at the attack.
Deep within, the strength of her own Thu'um flexes, undaunted by an angry male, a mere gnat. Barely touching her hide with such an overpowered opening move. A territorial dispute, if she would stoop to calling it that. A mere tiff between two large dragons angling for a good meal on a hot summer's day. The hills here are achingly green and rich with game, the woods and thickets scuffing their surfaces hardly proof against the keen eyes of a dovah. The air expelled from her lungs brings with it the taste of the flame to come. Insultingly, she huffs a plume of smoke in challenge at this iota flaunting his Voice.
The unspoken assertion of her dominance predictably enrages the male. Muscles bunching in fury beneath his ochre scales, he surges up at the slighter female like an angry orange javelin launched from some clever war-machine built by the Dwemer-mortals.
Her retaliation is instant.
Long ago, doubtlessly centuries past as counted by the verminous, temporary Joor, she had practiced this move a thousand times in empty skies, for it would not do for a fledgling dov to be seen learning the necessary mechanics of flight in lee of eventual battle-debates and courtship rituals.
Thus, her form is deadly perfect as she arches, wings rising high, angled sharp as a hawk beginning the stoop. The graceful lines of her neck bristle and her sea-green eyes close in anticipation.
There were many amongst her race who viewed her brand of fighting with distaste, claiming such tactics - reminiscent of some avian barracuda - were the foolhardy prerogative of the young.
She knew better. Certainly, a dragon might inhale her own breath, Shouting whilst locked in the grip of a vertical dive. If executed poorly, such a dov might invite death into herself to roast the vulnerable flesh of her insides. Such a dov did not deserve to live.
Her eyes unlid briefly and the visage of her adversary fills her frontal vision long enough to glimpse the horror enter his own eyes. Her Thu'um transcends mere noise, unlike the vulgar cacophony of the male's. Her Voice is not to be heard alone but felt, and the world surrounding the two dragons explodes into flame.
Her nostrils are squeezed shut, her eyes likewise, and still the volcanic heat of her breath is near-unbearable. To attempt to break off the assault now would be suicide. The air itself is fire, and only the violence of her passage protects her body at large. Already her powerful jaws are savaging the agreeably yielding underside of the dovah's throat, reverberating with his screams. As the flames leap to the roaring wind and slowly dissipate, she uses the sheer impetus of her body to finally twist aside, jerking her head so violently the male's throat splits open to both sky and whistling air.
A few slow wing-beats to steady her flight, and she witnesses the final death-plunge of that vanquished foe, wings bonelessly trailing bulk until all is swallowed by earth, dust and foliage.
Such a dov did not deserve to live.
And all is peaceful once more. Though the din of their dispute had doubtlessly scared every scrap of game for miles into deep cover, she feels only mild annoyance at this bad news for her stomach. She goes where it pleases her to go, fights whom it pleases her to fight. Wings outspread and stretched, revealing their translucent texture in all its golden glory, she makes for the smudged blue line of mountains framing these emerald lands, eager for sleep and a good spot to roost for the night.
To be a dragon is to live in the moment, always. A proud race; favoured children of that mighty deity, Akatosh. Above such petty, mortal affectations as mercy and leniency.
Truly, Qahnaarin understood her own nature better than all of them, save one.
And then...