Foreword: Hey all. New here to FF, but not new to writing, so I thought I'd get some experience with putting my works out in the public. I'm finally getting around to putting a longtime idea on paper, so it's a bit dated. This series is a retelling of the main events of Skyrim through the eyes of Artavan of Blacklight, a Dark Elf loner who gets caught up in the story of the Dragonborn and eventually becomes his arch-rival.

Notes: italicized text, when not in quotes, is from Artavan's point of view. Also, while I'll try to avoid infringing on canon as much as possible, there will be instances where I tweak scenes and lines for the story's benefit.

Rated M for violence and some severe language. Feedback is welcome, haters (on the story itself) are not. Enjoy. And if there's anything I might have missed format-wise, don't hesitate to let me know.

Dunmer Luck

Chapter 1: Unbound

The first thing Artavan noticed was the cold.
It was a keen, whistling cold that served well to rouse him from slumber, but did little to improve his already ill temper. Not that he was surprised; Artavan had come to Skyrim with no illusions about the climate, but it certainly wasn't helping matters.
Neither was the fact that he was bound at the wrists and stripped of his traveling clothes, as he noticed half a second later. And matters were only aggravated further by the splitting pain in his temple.
Nothing says 'Welcome to Skyrim' like getting knocked in the head and arrested at the border, I guess. Now I'm beginning to see why everyone gave me weird looks on my way north.
Artavan raised his hands to feel around the wound on his head. He felt frozen blood caked to the side of his face.
I must have been hit pretty hard. What in Oblivion even happened?
Artavan opened his eyes, wincing in pain at the glare off the snow. He was in a cart with a group of sullen-looking Nord prisoners in blue-tinted fur armor. Craning his head to the left, he could see a blocky stone tower in the distance-likely their ultimate destination.
"Hey. You. You're finally awake."
Artavan turned his head to see a blond-haired Nord in the cart behind him. Like the prisoners that shared his cart, this Nord was outfitted in blue furs, but the other passengers were not. the Nord was a small, scared-looking man with dark eyes, and across him was yet another Nord wearing a rich fur cloak, bound and gagged.
Hm. A good find for the Empire today, then. Looks like they found themselves a prince. Or Jarl, or whatever the fuck it is up here.
The last prisoner in that wagon-to whom the blond Nord's comment was addressed-gave Artavan pause. He was Imperial by his face and skin, but he was powerfully built, with long red hair and a powerful beard that would have been more common up here in Skyrim. Artavan, with some surprise, also noticed a strange twisting tattoo over his left eye, the same bloody red hue as his hair. The prisoner shifted, and noticed Artavan looking back at him. Artavan narrowed his purple eyes in an unspoken challenge, and the Imperial met his gaze with equally intense green eyes and a defiant smile. After another prompting from the blonde Nord, the Imperial turned back to face him.
Artavan knew immediately that this one was going to be trouble.
"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now!"
So, the little one is a horse-thief, but everyone else is a political prisoner. Fuck. I should have known better than take a job up here in the middle of a civil war.
It was all coming back to Artavan now. His employer had given him a job to hunt down a man named Euric. Problem was, Artavan had been given nothing except the name and the fact that he was somewhere in Skyrim. Artavan didn't want the contract, but he had a feeling that he would turn into a loose end if he refused.
And he had learned long ago that the Thalmor were very good at tying up loose ends.
Looks like the Empire will do that job for them, though. Typical Dunmer luck.
From snippets of the conversation going on in the last wagon between the thief and the rebel, Artavan picked up that the gagged man was a Jarl named Ulfric Stormcloak, and that he was the one behind the civil war that was raging in Skyrim. Which most likely meant that he was going to be executed, and everyone else in the cavalcade along with him.
Artavan slumped back into his cold seat as the town came into view. He didn't bother praying, like many of his fellow prisoners did. He knew it wouldn't do him any good.
All things considered, I suppose a headsman's axe isn't the worst way to go. At least that smug Imperial bastard will go along with me.
"Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this!"
Artavan noticed the blonde rebel's voice picking up again, this time in anger.
Thalmor? By Azura, are they in everyone's business these days?
Artavan took a look ahead to their destination: a stone courtyard filled with Imperial soldiers, and a tough-looking Imperial general with graying hair and magnificent armor.
That'd be Tullius. And sure enough, there's the headsman and a priestess.
The carts rolled to a halt, as the prisoners began to step out. Artavan saw a captain, flanked by a few legionaries with quill and paper. Artavan stepped out as his name was called. How they had gotten his name, Artavan had no idea. He didn't care.
I knew there was something off about this job right from the start. There probably even is no Euric, and I've just outlived my usefulness to the Dominion.
"Empire loves their damned lists," the blonde rebel complained.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." the legionary called out.
The Jarl stepped forward and made his way to the courtyard.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," said the blonde rebel.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
The blonde rebel stepped forward. Artavan caught a quick glance between him and the Legionary. They apparently knew each other, though it was clear their last parting was less than amicable.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
The horse thief stepped forward, pleading his innocence. Not that it would do him any good.
Look at him. He's probably going to do something desperate.
No sooner had Artavan finished the thought then the thief made a break for it, yelling "you're not gonna kill me!"
He was brought down a bare two seconds later by an archer.
Right on cue.
"You there. Step forward."
Artavan noticed the Imperial step forward. He kept a closer eye.
"Who, are you?"
"Euric, late of Cyrodil," he said. His voice was clear and strong, with just a hint of accent.
Artavan could scarcely believe his ears.
Well, fuck me. What are the odds? A whole province to search and it turns out he's going to the block with me? Well, at least the Dominion is gonna be saving some coin off this one. Some Daedra is probably sitting back on his throne in Oblivion, laughing his ass off right now.
"You're a long way from the Imperial City. What're you doing in Skyrim?"
"Dying, apparently."
Gods, he's spoken twice and I already can't stand him.
The Legionary turned to the captain.
"Captain, what should we do? His name's not on the list."
"It doesn't matter. He goes to the block."
"I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Cyrodil."
It'll be about as sure as an Nord's footing after raiding a wine cellar. Empire's got better things to do.
Artavan tuned out the rest of the formalities, furious at the twisted irony he had been dealt. The general wasn't there for him, and the priestess' last rites weren't going to do him any good-after all, the gods had apparently designated him as their plaything, so if anything it was their fault he was about to be executed.
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."
Another rebel shoved his way to the block, interrupting both the benediction and Artavan's musing. He heard a strange sound-like a roar, only deeper-in the distance, but he paid it no mind. It wouldn't make any difference.
"Come on, I haven't got all morning."
The captain shoved the rebel down to the block, as the rebel turned to face the headsman.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"
He's brave, I'll give him that. Not a lot of humans can face their death with that kind of conviction.
Down came the headsman's axe, with the time-honored thwack that Artavan had gotten so used to hearing over the span of his life of crime. He wondered how many more times he would hear it this morning until it would be his turn.
"You Imperial bastards!"
"Justice!"
"Death to the Stormcloaks!"
Hot crowd this morning. Can't wait to hear what they say for the Jarl's death.
"As fearless in death as he was in life. We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother."
Ralof canted his head as he delivered the informal eulogy.
Oh, these humans and their sense of fraternity. I'd envy them if it weren't so asinine.
"Next, the Imperial.", said the captain.
Euric turned his eyes to Artavan again, almost as if he was smirking. Artavan ignored him. Artavan heard the roar again, closer this time. It sounded… off. Like it was a voice, only something very strange about it. Many of the guards and prisoners looked around nervously. The Legionary who had taken names voiced his concern.
"There it is again!"
"I said, next prisoner," The captain reiterated.
"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."
Euric made his way to the block and knelt down. Artavan smiled grimly, awaiting the sound again but something behind the tower caught his eye. Something big. Very big. With wings and a tail… and scales.
Oh, shit.
"What in Oblivion is that!?" shouted the General. He had apparently seen it too.
"Sentries! What do you see?" asked the captain, the execution forgotten.
"It's in the clouds!"
The beast swooped down and landed on top of the courtyard's tower, staring down the humans in all its infernal majesty. The cry went up from the town, putting to rest all doubts about the beast's identity.
"Dragon!"
Oh my. And to think, twelve hours ago, I was worried about running low on feed for my horse. A dragon attacking during your own execution tends to put things in perspective that way.
Artavan saw a guard raise a bow and aim at the monster, but the dragon roared something with the sound of a deafening thunderclap, knocking the defenders off their feet. The sky darkened and began to rain fire. Chaos reigned in the town, as the Stormcloak prisoners gathered each other together and made a break for the relative safety of a nearby tower. Artavan saw Euric go with them. Artavan's eyes narrowed as he saw them go, and prepared to follow, but his path was denied by a piece of falling rubble.
Damn! Well, I'm not getting out of the town this way.
Artavan cast about for an exit, and saw the headsman rolling about on the ground in agony, covered in burns. Artavan smiled grimly.
"Please! Help Me!"
Artavan rushed over to the headsman's side, withdrawing an iron dagger from his belt. After cutting his own hands free, Artavan looked into the headsman's eyes and plunged the dagger into his heart.
"Your trip to Sovngarde is on me."
Artavan dropped the dagger and made a break for the north wall, scrambling up and over the smoldering stones with a speed born of desperation. He hit the rocky ground with a roll, took one look back at the still-occupied dragon, then turned west and began to run.

Artavan had no idea how far he had run by the time he finally collapsed into the snow. All that mattered was that he was far away from the doomed town and the dragon, and that suited him just fine. Artavan pulled himself up onto a boulder and sat down, taking a moment to think.
So, here I am. Lost and unwelcome in an unfamiliar land, no food or equipment, all but naked in a northern winter, and the dragons have apparently picked today to return to Tamriel.
Artavan looked at his hands. They were cut, scorched, and shaking. He didn't know whether it was the cold or just the adrenaline.
I'd say it couldn't get any worse if I didn't know better.
"Blood drips down from an angry sky, my cock rages on, my cock rages on…"
His fatigue forgotten, Artavan ducked behind a rock, warily eyeing the direction of the singing. The singer soon came into view, a lone Breton wearing a worn set of hide armor. He had an iron sword at his hip and what looked to be an old imperial army longbow on his back. And most importantly, he looked to be blissfully unaware of his surroundings.
Artavan smiled crookedly. He flexed his right hand, feeling the familiar tingle of illusion magic dancing on his fingertips. Artavan raised his hand, and vanished. The Breton frowned at the crackle of the invisibility spell, and touched his hand to the pommel of his sword. He didn't even have time to grip it before Artavan stood up behind him and snapped his neck. The Breton went down in a heap. After appropriating the Breton's belongings and stowing his body in a snowdrift, Artavan decided to focus on his next priority-shelter. His victim did not have a map, but Artavan had done his research beforehand, and he figured the road he was on must have been the one running through Falkreath hold.
Falkreath should do well for a while. Small enough that I can still keep a low profile, and big enough that no one there will ask too many questions. I just need to get there.

It was several hours later that Artavan noticed the sun beginning to dip in the sky, and he began to regret his decision to try to make Falkreath in a day, rather than seeking out more immediate shelters. Artavan had no love for the cold, but it was more the natives that concerned him. While he had recovered decently from a collection of food and potions in the Breton's pack, he was still exhausted from his flight, and too poorly equipped to face a werewolf or a gang of bandits.
If I can just find a roof or a cave to hole up in for a while, I should do fine. I don't think anyone's looking for me. Or at least, I desperately hope not.
"All right there, hand over what you've got, and I won't gut you like a fish."
Wow. Already?
Artavan sighed in boredom and turned around to face the voice's source. He saw an ill-fed human clad in leather armor, brandishing a dagger at him.
"Look at me. Cracked bow, cheap armor, dinted sword… do I look like I'm carrying any valuables?"
"Our man Verel wasn't, and you seemed perfectly okay with killing him."
"Who the fuck is Verel?" Artavan asked. The bandit was trying his patience.
"That's his bow you're carrying."
"Splendid. Here, have it back." Artavan took the warped bow off his back, broke it on his knee, and handed it to the bandit. "Now, if you don't mind, I have things to do."
Artavan turned away and continued walking.
"Don't you walk away from me!" yelled the bandit. Artavan rolled his eyes and turned around.
"Trust me, thief. Whatever you're planning right now, it isn't worth it."
"The same could be said for you, assassin."
Artavan whirled back around to see a woman clad head to toe in steel plate armor, backed up by three enforcers with large iron weapons. She herself carried a plain sword, but her shield was of orcish make. Artavan knew from the way she carried herself that she didn't screw around, so he adopted a more tactful approach.
"Apologies. You must have mistaken me for someone else."
"Nice try, elf. There's a bounty on your capture and we intend to collect."
A bounty? Does this whole fucking province just want me dead now?
"A bounty, huh? Well, that's awfully convenient. You ambush me on the road, but it's okay, because you're a noble servant of the law."
The bandit leader didn't seem amused. She turned her head to behind Artavan and barked at the mugger.
"The bounty. Give it here."
"Aye, Rigel."
The mugger walked over to Rigel and gave her a roll of parchment, sneering at Artavan. Rigel unrolled the parchment
"By Order of Ulfric Stormcloak…"
Artavan began laughing. Rigel trailed off and glared at him.
"Something… funny, elf?"
"Oh, yeah. You see," Artavan smiled innocently and shrugged, "Ulfric Stormcloak's dead, honey. He was at Helgen this morning, about to get the axe from the empire. Then a dragon attacked."
The bandits behind Rigel exchanged a variety of smirks, which didn't surprise Artavan
Well yeah, I'd be laughing too if someone told me the dragons appeared this morning. Probably should have come up with a better excuse. Or just stayed the fuck away from Skyrim to begin with.
Rigel put away the parchment and drew her sword.
"Well if he's dead, then there's no sense in keeping you alive, is there?"
Artavan flexed his left hand, surreptitiously gathering an armor spell.
"Perhaps not. But then I've never known a bandit to be particularly sensible."
Artavan saw Riyen's eyes narrow from behind her helmet.
"You won't be making any more jokes when I cut your tongue out, elf."
She turned to her thugs.
"Take him."
Artavan clenched his hand and immediately felt the nerves on his skin deaden as its toughness increased tenfold. One of the bandits came charging clumsily at him with a battleaxe. Artavan smiled pityingly and slid to the right, drawing his sword across the bandit's flank, then turning and decapitating him with a two-handed strike.
As if that were a cue, the other two enforcers, as well as the mugger, rushed him. Rigel stayed back, apparently confident that her thugs could subdue him.
Artavan gritted his teeth and switched his iron sword to his left hand, conjuring a bound one in his right hand just in time to deflect a thrust from the mugger. Artavan knocked the mugger's arm down, then charged him with his shoulder. The mugger staggered back, spitting out blood, giving Artavan enough time to run him through with his bound sword. One of the enforcers slammed the haft of his warhammer into the back of Artavan's head, and he felt his knees give way. Artavan rolled out of the way of the thug's downward swing just in time, and the warhammer stuck in the ground. Artavan sliced through the hammer's haft, then stabbed upwards, driving his iron sword through the bandit's skull. Artavan saw the last enforcer coming at him with his shield raised, and yanked his sword free, only to find that it wouldn't budge. Artavan abandoned the sword with a curse and dove away from the thug's charge, gripping his bound sword with both hands in a defensive stance. The enforcer turned and raised his shield again, approaching Artavan warily.
Well, at least this one has the sense not to charge in like a mad bull. Not that it'll do him much good.
The enforcer slowly closed the distance, then attacked him shield-first. Artavan planted his back foot, then leaped over the thug with a flip. Artavan turned with a brutal backhand slash, severing the thug's spinal cord. Artavan smiled, savoring the kill, only to turn around just in time to catch the front end of Rigel's armored fist. The impact hit Artavan directly in the eye, and he remembered nothing more.