Hello, this story is based on a dream, and is the more serious version of 'They See Me Trollin': A Skyrim Saga'. I've decided to break up the story into small chapters rather than have a giant one shot like Flesh and Soul. This will have eventual Hadvar/OC. In my eyes, the OC is the Hero of Kvatch, but NOT the Champion of Cyrodiil. That belongs to another. Either way, I hope you enjoy!
The sun shone through the white clouds, casting its rays upon the forested lands nestled between the Heartlands and the Great Forest of Cyrodiil in the early morn. Upon the border sat a small, wooden cabin that rested within a fertile meadow full of flowers and tall grasses which the wind lulled awake in the gentle breeze.
A woman was the sole resident of the humble shack, the Breton young in appearance yet aged in mind and heart. Just two hundred years ago these lands were once scarred with numerous Oblivion Gates opening and burning the land, unleashing armies of Daedra, and those were the days she remembered well. She had stood by her beloved Empire and country as demons ravished her home, and had seen the sacrifice and death of Martin Septim-the last Dragonborn of a legendary bloodline.
Cyrodiil had been her home for more than half of her unnatural life, yet she knew with the death of Martin that her beloved land would never achieve the power it once had again. Just some fifty years ago the Breton had fled her home, unable to handle the burden of seeing her once great Empire being desiccated by the Altmer.
Only several years after the White-Gold Concordat was signed did she return. Yes, her home had forgotten about her, but she would never forget the land that had made her some two centuries ago.
Now, the Breton had lived a very solitary life, as many of her kind did. Her dear mentor, Vicente, had claimed that all vampires shall reach an age where something within them changes and they shall seek isolation. Valtieri had admitted that he had already changed with his age. Yet, when the girl-for she was simply a girl back then-asked anything more, the male Breton would simply say she is too young to understand. Now, however, she understood.
A simple, quiet life she had tried to live which consisted of largely working upon alchemy-a skill she had foolishly neglected for well over a century.
Within her dwelling the woman sat, carefully rubbing the sweet nectar of a maple into fragile petals, several species of flowering plants scattered around and withheld in vases, resting upon various end tables. Silk shawls which were green in color lay upon wooden chairs and tables throughout the single roomed shack. Linen tapestries were the only things separating her private room from the rest of the wooden shack. The wind blew the gentle silks, the far wall from her dwelling's opening completely absent, only a railing standing guard as the open wall allowed her to view the meadow, forest and a river flowing in the distance.
The woman's red irises gazed upon the flowering plants within one of her many vases, lips curling back ever so slightly in a careful smile, fangs hidden.
It was one of those days where the pickings of new species of flowering plants would be plentiful, the flora fueled by the recent rains. As of now, the woman rose from her seat, the chair skidding against the floor in protest as she grabbed an empty basket. Basket in hand, the woman began to hum softly to herself as she moved out the door-which had looked like a mass of tangled roots-and into the fading sun.
The Breton had hummed softly to herself, blood kissed hair tied into a messy braid that had ran down to her mid back. It had felt good to change her hair. Were she two hundred years younger, Shealyne would have never dared to grow her hair passed her shoulders, content with the boyish cut that has draped upon her neck. With the coming of the new century, it felt almost necessary that the Breton should change her hair-however small. Such simple, almost non trivial things seemed to go by unnoticed to mortals who naturally changed with age: their hair thinned and lost color, their once smooth and soft skin became loose and wrinkled, their lungs weakened and caused their voice to grow course and strained, their once brilliantly jovial and youthful eyes lost their color and gained a lifetime of mournful memories and wisdom, their mind grew wise, yet departing and lost and their heart grew heavy with burden. All of these things Shealyne knew she would never become-her body frozen in time. She would never experience the natural process of her body slowly decaying, breaking, and returning to that frailty and vulnerability of an infant. Never would she experience that peaceful passing of the soul leaving the body in one final heave of breath.
Indeed, the more Shealyne dwelled upon the topic and paused to look upon a dandelion, studying its being, its reason for existence, the less she believed that she had a soul. For what was one stricken with vampirism? A husk of the flesh? A soulless vessel, cursed to feed upon those who have souls, have flowing blood and warm skin just to survive? Was her soul truly within the realm of Mundas? Or was her soul in the realms of Oblivion? Or nonexistent?
Shealyne continued to look upon the tiny dandelion, the flower's cheery, almost firelike petals casting a golden glow around it.
Slowly, the woman had kneeled upon the earth, trying to avoid crushing the dry grasses below her as she set her wicker basket to the side. With care, a feminine hand brushed the yellow hued petals, the soft floral tickling her skin-which was cold and dead. The woman's fingers then pinched the stem lightly, for she did not want to harm the small flower, no.
"You do not have a heartbeat, either, do you? Yet here you are, alive." Shealyne spoke softly, the corners of her lips lifting upward ever so slightly. Indeed, she felt no heartbeat in the flower, yet it was alive and well. Did that mean that the flower did not have a soul? Or did that mean that she was like the flower, alive, yet with no heartbeat, no soul...no desire other than to survive, to constantly live in the present?
The woman frowned slightly as her free hand rose to her chest, seeking to find a rhythm that just was not there. Her heart had stopped beating long ago, and while she knew better, the woman still dwelled upon the matter-if only in passing fancy.
Shealyne then broke her gaze from the small, seemingly insignificant plant before picking up her woven basket and rising to her feet, simple dress a bit stained from flora and dirt.
"Thank you." She spoke to the dandelion, which had aided her in understanding. With that, the woman had gone off deeper into the meadows, taking her time pick the best plants that met her qualifications.
In walking through the grasses, Shealyne suddenly cried as the ground beneath her foot gave way, causing the woman to stumble and fall. The basket had almost been crushed under her weight, and once regaining her bearings, the woman had struggled to free her leg from the hole-which she assumed was made by some mole.
However, the woman's struggling has only caused the ground to give way into a quagmire, Shealyne screaming as she fell underground into a tunnel. The earthen waterfall was so great even the light from the sun's rays were briefly blocked by the amount of dust.
Coughing, and covered with dirt, Shealyne rose to her feet, shaking herself off and trying to brush the earth off her person. Looking around, her eyes swiftly adjusted to the dim light before she glanced to where she once was above ground. She frowned, for the tunnel was too high for her to climb, even with the mound of dirt-which had crushed her basket, flowers strewn about.
Turning towards the tunnel, the woman sighed. It appeared she would have to get out the old fashioned way. With that, the Breton had begun to walk down the tunnel-which she hoped would lead towards the surface.
Had her heart beat, however, it would have skipped out of cold terror, for she had heard a cry that she had known well.
It was the scream of a troll.