A/N: Hey guys, just a heads up that this story is based heavily off of the Mod Skyrim Romance Mod 3.1. If you are currently playing the mod be aware that while this is my take on the story, it may contain spoilers. However, for you non Mod fans, this story is perfectly readable without the background as I will be explaining everything as if my readers have not played it. On that note, be aware that not all characters are my own and I will be mentioning which specific ones do not belong to me at the end of every chapter. Enjoy!
The sound of thunder and wailing wind cut through the valley air as a petite young woman clad in worn leathers sprinted down a cobblestone path. A roar only comparable to some sick torment created by a furious divine shook the world beneath her feet as fire hailed from the sky below. Behind her, children wailed as mothers scooped them into their arms just before combusting. The smell of smoke and singed flesh was in the air. Stone walls crumbled to the ground beneath talons the size of mammoths, longhouses scorched and thatched roofs blazed. In an instant the peaceful village of Helgan ceased to exist.
Aria Proudside continued to sprint away from the scene, stopping to rest only when she made it to the Guardian Stones. Her bow and quiver of arrows had never felt so heavy, and her thick copper braids had never felt so suffocating as they clung to the back of her neck. A dragon…once believed to be a legendary creature deceased for a millennium had appeared In the middle of an imperial execution that could have ended the civil war. Ulfric Stormcloak was about to be beheaded, and a mythical creature just so happened to appear at the exact location of his execution. Something just did not sit right in Aria's gut as the realization of the afternoon's events settled over her.
Born and raised in the capital of Haafinar Hold, Solitude, she had experienced firsthand the lengths competing nobles would go to in order to gain more power or prestige. The Stormcloak army no doubt managed to fund some kind of conjurer to create a mass illusion of a dragon to terrorize the Imperials and help the traitor treasonous Jarl Ulfric to escape.
As Aria leaned against the ancient divine stones catching her breath, she peered over the cliffside taking in the silhouette of the nearest village, Riverwood, against the setting sun on the horizon. Her instincts told her that if the Stormcloaks had the gall to attack the peaceful village of Helgan for political gain, they had no qualms with coming for Riverwood, and the Hold capital of Whiterun next. Jarl Balgruuf needed to be informed of the incoming attack…and soon.
In the distance, wolves howled at the rising moons and grey clouds appeared on the horizon. A noose of impending doom snaked its way around the young Nord's throat, threatening to tighten at any moment. Having caught her breath, her breath hitched and her blood ran cold. There was nothing she could do now but make her way to the village below and wait for the dawn, and the following day's travel to the Reach capital.
Upon entering the village, the heavens opened up, and the rain poured down in sheets; all that could be seen in the dark night was the warm glow of the Inn hearth a few meters ahead. With a heavy sigh and a silent prayer to Stendar that her spare clothes would stay dry wrapped in her bedroll, she made her way towards the infamous Sleeping Giant Inn…if it's reputation held up, at least she could go to bed with a belly full of the best mead in all of Skyrim.
A crack of thunder rattled the wooden frame of the Inn as she stepped inside. Instantly, smoky air and the welcoming smell of roasted goat wafted over her. She smiled to herself and sloshed her way to the counter where the innkeeper was taking notes on inventory. In the corner, a bard began to strum a lute skillfully, and a few older Nords sleepily drained their tankards to drown out the stress of the long work day.
The inn keeper looked up at her from behind his leather-bound records book with a slight air of annoyance; beads of fresh rain dribbled down the side of her pauldron and plopped onto his precarious pile of parchment. She flashed an awkward toothy grin in response.
"Uh…one room, thanks." She mumbled.
The inn keeper sighed heavily and fished a heavy key out of his apron pouch, "Ten Septims and it's yours for the day."
She pulled the handful of coins out of her pack and took the heavy key from the impatient Nord behind the counter and made her way toward the only room that appeared to be unoccupied. Business was good for a small-town inn, perhaps the mead really was something to get excited about.
A short while later she emerged from her room in a spare, simple wool dress, stockings, and simple leather shoes she kept in case of her armor soaking through. Her hair was damp and tussled, free from its earlier braid, falling in untidy waves that framed her face. In her leather corded belt, she kept a dagger in a shiny sheath…a warning to anyone who dare mess with her while dressed more simply. She ordered a tankard of mead and some goat, and took her place at a bench off to the side of the hearth. The evening was peaceful for the most part; a welcome reprieve from the need to save the world from an outlandish Stormcloak plot. It was when the hearth was dying down to embers, her tankard was drained, and her hair had set into loose glossy ringlets at her shoulders when suddenly her uneventful evening became unfortunately…well…eventful.
She had just made the decision to head off to bed when a pair of piss drunk revelers made their way into the tavern. They stumbled over themselves and the furniture causing an obscene amount of racket as they made their way towards the counter. Their slurred laughter echoed off the walls of the now, very claustrophobic hall, only stopping when their eyes caught the glint of Aria's hair in the low light of the embers.
"Well, well, well." One of the fools slurred, "What gift of Diabella do we have here?"
Aria's back stiffened, and the nearly invisible hairs on her arms stood on end. She was hyper aware of these drunken idiots, and what they were capable of if they caught her unarmored petite frame in just the right way.
The other drunk chuckled to himself, "What a sweet, fiery beauty you are lass." He hiccuped, "I bet you are just a little torch between the sheets."
She kept her expression blank, staring into her empty tankard. She learned a long time ago that dealing with men was easiest when you did not react and feed into them. She kept her mouth shut.
"Oi! Sweetheart! How would you like to warm my bedroll tonight?"
She continued to ignore them while simultaneously contemplating why Sanguine enjoyed turning mead into liquid courage for the fool-hearty and the insufferable.
"Hey!" The other man growled, "My friend is talking to you, you bitch."
Again, she ignored them.
"Fucking wench!" He growled, "I'll show you to disrespect us." He lunged forward, reaching for the laces on the front of her dress.
In an instant, she was on her feet with her dagger unsheathed, fluidly side-stepping his attack. He stumbled forward and fell face first over the side of the bench. His feet flew into the air, and he began to kick and scream indignantly. Meanwhile, his enraged companion decided to take a solid swing at her. She easily caught his wrist in her free hand, and managed to wrangle his writing form to his knees with his arm behind his back. Her blade was held against his throat tight enough to send a trickle of blood down his chest as a warning. When the other fool found his footing again, he was horrified to find his accomplice in such a state. He reached for the longsword strapped to his back and she smiled wickedly.
"Unsheathe your weapon, and your friend here gets his throat slit." The man in her grasp whimpered like a pup torn from its mother, and her would-be attacker froze.
"Drop the sword." She ordered.
The drunkard hesitated.
"Now!"
The floor shook with a loud clatter as the massive weapon hit the ground.
"Good." She smiled sweetly, "Now listen, and listen well you despicable bastards." She spat, "Not every woman is a defenseless little twig who needs a man's protection. Some of us, though seemingly fragile, were taught how defend ourselves against worms like you. Now, leave your weapons and leave this tavern before I decide to gut you and turn your bodies over to the College of Winterhold to be used in a necromancy experiment." She removed her blade from the man's throat and brushed the dirt off of her skirt, "And when you get home, say a prayer to Stendarr that you kept your mouths shut once you realized I had the upper hand. I was in the mood to make eunuchs out of you both."
She sheathed her dagger, and the men stumbled out of the inn like two frightened pups with their tails between their legs. She headed towards her rented room as if nothing had happened.
"You…You've got the soul of a dragon, you do, lass." The bard praised as she passed.
She paused in the doorway of her room and smiled at him innocently, huge round green eyes flickering in the candle light. "Funny," she giggled, the sound of a sleigh bell filling the room, "My mother used to say the same thing."
She latched the door gently and clicked the lock into place, unaware of the curious stranger watching her from a dark corner on the opposite end of the hall. A dark figure lounged coolly in a rickety chair, enveloped in shadow. Predatory golden eyes narrowed in amazement as they bore holes into her sealed door. A small smirk played at the corners of thick lips, adding a wicked aura to the sharp cheekbones and rugged stubble blanketing them. The wolf had spotted his prey, and he was not about to let it get away.
Characters that are not mine: The revelers, the stranger in the corner