Here we are again, I suppose. I went back and edited chapter one, finally, but i'm still not quite satisfied with it. Maybe i'll rewrite it entirely, once finals are over. But who knows, what with all the projects and whatnot that clutter up my lovely summer break. In any case, I've gotten two reviews! I may have danced a little, when I saw. Speaking of which:
LadyofSummerset: Why the Daggerfall version of Sheogorath? Well, I always imagined that daedra tend to change their appearances a lot, mostly for giggles. A bit like changing outfits, ya know? Not to worry though, i'm bringing back the Skyrim version eventually. There may even be an appearance by the Hero of Kvatch later. But that's just a possibility.
DevoutofSheogorath: Oh my, you've picked up on an important detail already! Why yes, the Maker is a reference to the Skaal. And her father...well, i'll let you read about him. I'm planning to flesh out a lot more details about her parents as the story progresses. They were pretty amazing people, and Ophelia's personality reflects their awesome parenting skills. It's unfortunate what happened to them...but you'll know what I mean after a few more updates. Oh, and thanks for the input. I wasn't really pleased with the way my first chapter was written, but your review was really encouraging. Keep reading, if you have the time, because I could always use someone who knows the game to double check my writing.
*I own nothing. Just a dog and a large debt courtesy of student loans. Thanks, college.*
"Bold"= Speech
"Normal"= Ophelia's POV
"Italics"= Ophelia's memories and thoughts
Dungeons and Dragons
The Altmer, not knowing what she had done, continued along her path. In time she discovered that fate had given her rare powers, a gift that could save or destroy all of Nirn. So it was that the Altmer became the last Dragonborn. In the Plains of Oblivion, many eyes turned toward Tamriel searching for the Dovahkiin. Some searched with ill intent, hoping to quicken the mortal apocalypse. Others sought her out simply for assistance. Most, however, were motivated by avarice. They longed to collect her soul, the very last of its kind to ever be created. Any Daedra with such a spirit within their realm would surely prove superiority over their brothers and sisters. Despite their considerable efforts, the gift of the Mad Star did its work well. None could divine her whereabouts, with only one exception. Deep within the Asylums the Mad God laughed.
The short walk to Riverwood was pleasantly uneventful. She ambled leisurely, her newly found sense of contentment slowing her steps and easing her worries. It was uncommon, she thought to herself, to walk in peace through this country. She had discovered that quickly enough after crossing the border from Hammerfell. It seemed at the time that she most likely wouldn't be able to travel for more than 10 minutes without meeting a pack of wolves or a bandit. Now, though, she could almost swear that Skyrim itself was granting her safe passage in the wake of their brutal introduction. As she approached the gates of Riverwood she could faintly discern the sounds of a lively village. Looking ahead she could already see a child merrily chasing a dog through the street, a farmer pushing a cart filled with cabbage, chickens scratching the dirt for insects. She could hear the sound of metal hitting metal –Hadvar's uncle the blacksmith? - and picked up her pace. If the Maker was kind, she would soon be in armor that she could say was her own.
"Papa, that man today…."she said tentatively, holding his larger hand on the road back home. It was late in the evening, and the sun was at their backs as they walked away from the stall where he sold meat to the villagers. She had been with him since the morning, practicing with her bow as he hunted, and had watched as a ragged looking drifter tried to sneak a rabbit haunch away by hiding it under his dirty tunic. Her father had caught him before he could escape into the village. He had been angry at first, demanding either payment or the return of his wares. The drifter had looked so sad when he handed the haunch back to her father; she had felt sad looking at him. Papa seemed to soften also, handing the rabbit back to the vagrant.
"You can have it this time," He said, looking sternly at the other man. "But next time you get hungry, don't try to steal from me. I'll gladly give you food in exchange for a little work."
Startled, the man looked from the haunch to her father's face. His face broke out into a jubilant (if slightly crooked) grin.
"Thank you Nord. Divines bless your kind heart." He murmured with a small bow.
"May the All-Maker guide you to peace, friend." Came her father's reply.
The drifter looked at him oddly after that, tilting his head in confusion. His brows creased a little, but then smoothed as he issued a final thanks before turning away. She hadn't had the chance after that to ask Papa about what happened, as they were suddenly accosted by the cook from The Golden Leaf Inn (who sneered whenever he came to the stall, and called her "half-breed" under his breath when her father was busy). Now though, in the calm of the sunset, she could satisfy her curiosity.
"What about him, birdie?"Came the answering rumble. He looked down at her as he spoke, gray eyes locking with her own.
"Why did you….?"
"Why did I let him have the meat, even though he tried to steal it?"
She nodded in affirmation, watching him as he turned to look at the road ahead. He was a tall man (though not as tall as her mother), with brown-blonde hair and a thick beard. He was lean, built for speed over strength, but she had seen him carry whole deer from the forest to the village with little trouble. He appeared to come to some conclusion in his head, and looked back to her with a gentle expression on his face.
"You remember what your mother and I told you about stealing, Birdie?"
"Yes Papa. It's wrong to take things that aren't yours."
"That's right. But the man today had nothing. Only the clothes on his back, and even those didn't look like they'd last much longer. It IS wrong to take things, Ophelia, but he wasn't stealing them just because he wanted to. He was starving. And that's why I gave him food. Sometimes in life, people become so sad and desperate that they can't see any other way to survive than to hurt others. But, if someone shows them a kindness, it may be possible to remind them that they can be kind too. Do you understand?"
"I…think so."
"That's my smart little birdie. What do you say to a race home, hmm? Think you can finally beat me to the front gate?"
"Yes! I'll win today!"
"You think so? We'll see about that. On the count of three, alright?"
She nodded vehemently, pulling up the hem of her dress and rolling to her toes in preparation to sprint. He laughed, before starting the count.
"One…two….."
"Three! Three septims is as low as I'll go for apples of this quality. No lower!" Crowed an old woman, haggling with an obviously irritated teenage girl. Their argument continued as Ophelia moved past them toward the smithy, walking up the wooden steps to speak to the man at the forge. He was a widely built Nord, arms large with muscles gained by years of shaping metal. He seemed to be very deeply focused on the helmet he was shaping on the coals. She hated to interrupt him in the middle of the process, but the stolen armor was growing heavier by the second and she was beginning to get hungry again. Ophelia cleared her throat loudly, and the blacksmith tilted his head toward the noise before putting down his tools. Turning fully, he faced her with a careful expression. She hadn't thought beforehand of what she was to say (Did she mention her almost-decapitation? The Dragon?) and was opening her mouth to speak when he beat her to it.
"You'll be the elf, then."He stated plainly, with the disapproving air of someone who had been kept waiting.
"Yes..?"She replied, confusion plain in her voice. (How did he know she was coming? Was he expecting some other elf?) His expression changed to one of open friendliness before he spoke again.
"I'm Alvor. And you're late. Hadvar's been here for close to an hour now. Getting real worried that something unfortunate had happened to you on the road."
"Ah. Got tired, took a break on the way."
"I see. Not much of a talker, are you? In any case, come into the house. Sigrid has some Apple Cabbage Stew still warm from lunch. You're probably pretty hungry, yeah? And we best not keep my poor nephew waiting; he'll pace a hole in my floor if we leave him much longer."He said with cheerful exasperation. He moved past her, signaling her to follow as he strode toward the wooden doorway beside the smithy. Alvor opened the door and the smell of warm food drifted out through the threshold. Stomach rumbling, she followed him inside.
The interior of the home was sweetly reminiscent of the house she spent her childhood in. It was plain and functional, but very warm and strewn with a few well-worn items of comfort. There was a woman sitting at a table, hands busily moving to repair a small dress. A young girl played with dolls on the floor beside her (was she making them joust? How cute.) and a distressed looking Hadvar paced in front of the fire. Upon their entry, all three inhabitants looked up from their respective endeavors.
"Divines be praised! You made it!" Hadvar exclaimed excitedly, moving toward her with surprising swiftness. "I was worried that after such an amazing escape, you might have run into trouble again."
"No trouble."She muttered, embarrassed by the attention. "Just stopped to rest."
"Now, Hadvar, let the poor woman sit and eat before you start badgering her." Spoke the woman at the table before rising to ladle stew from a pot over the fire into a wooden bowl. "Come and sit, dear. You look like you could use a good meal after all that's happened."
Ophelia approached the table to accept the food, taking it and the proffered spoon with near reverence.
"Many thanks, missus."Ophelia replied gratefully, sinking onto the bench with bowl in hand.
"Just call me Sigrid. All that "missus" business makes me feel like an old woman. You've already met my husband and nephew. And this is…."
"I'm Dorthea!" The young girl called out, rising from her seat on the floor. "And one day I'm going to be the best blacksmith in Skyrim!"
Sigrid shot a venomous glare at her husband over Dorthea's head, making Alvor turn away with a sheepish grin. Hadvar was obviously accustomed to this argument, and rolled his eyes before giving Ophelia a shrug. Dorthea, oblivious to these happenings, looked at Ophelia with something akin to hero worship in her eyes.
"Did you really see it? Did you really see a dragon?"
Taken aback, she turned to Hadvar for explaination. He looked vastly uncomfortable for a moment, before squaring his shoulders in determination.
"I've already explained to my Aunt and Uncle about what happened at Helgen. You've got to understand, this news is… it's catastrophic! We're already having enough trouble with Ulfric Stormcloak and his ridiculous rebellion, and now dragons! Skyrim can't survive such a plague divided as it is! That's why I must ask a favor of you. Please, go to Whiterun. Talk to Jarl Balgruuf in Dragonsreach, tell him of what happened, and ask him to send reinforcements to Riverwood. If a dragon attacks this place now, there will be no survivors to tell the tale!"
"What of you?" Ophelia retorted, appetite disintegrating. "Where will you go?"
"I will travel on to Solitude. Jarl Elisif needs to know about this as well. The sooner we can end the Stormcloak uprising, the sooner we can deal with the dragons. Before they scorch this country into Oblivion."
Everyone stared at her as she apathetically stirred her stew, deep in contemplation. It wouldn't be so much trouble to go to Whiterun, she thought to herself. She would be more than happy to go, honestly, if only to save this town and the people in it. But to be drawn into a civil war in a country that was not her own…that was problematic. She had seen quite enough of that in her youth on the Summerset Isles. She was sure that the Thalmor would be involved in this political game too, forever sticking their upturned noses into other people's business. The group at Helgen had proved as much. But….these people needed aid, and quickly. Hadvar was right; an attack now would decimate the entire population in minutes. How could she, in good conscience, leave them to such a bleak future? Sighing, she turned back to Hadvar and Alvor, still watching her from beside the doorway.
"Alright. I can do that. But I'll need supplies for the journey. And some armor, if you can manage."
Both men broke out in smiles, nodding to her in joy. Sigrid seemed to sag a little in relief, and turned to grab a small cloth sack out of a cupboard and fill it with food.
"I'll go ahead and get Hadvar's supplies ready." She said, stuffing a loaf of bread into the bag with gusto. "Then I'll start on yours. He has a longer journey, and you still need to rest a bit before you leave."
"You can have a full set of armor, if you want it." Alvor broke in, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. "But I'll need iron from Embershard Mine, and it's been infested with bandits for weeks now. Take care of them, though, and I'll forge your things for free. You might even be able to collect some coin from that mangy band of dullards."
Bandits. Of course there were bandits. Sighing again, Ophelia turned back to her soup and forced herself to eat another spoonful. She would, apparently, need her strength much sooner than anticipated.
She was exhausted once again as she entered the gates of Whiterun two days later. The bandits in Embershard had proved to be little trouble, and even had a small horde of septims tucked away in a chest with a lovely new steel sword. She had actually felt sorry for killing them and taking their treasures. At least, until one of them started making uncouth comments about her backside and inferring unpleasant things about a lone woman walking into a cave full of men. Any pity she felt had been forgotten after that. Some people, the mused, were beyond the remembrance of kindness. But in any case, the real work began once the last bandit fell. Lugging the iron back to town had been more difficult than she had anticipated. It had taken her three trips to bring it all back to Riverwood, and then she had to refine it herself so that Alvor could get started on her cladding. The result was well worth the trouble though. Her new armor was only simple iron, but it was well fitted and strong and hers. She buried the belongings of the dead Stormcloak by the river, saying a prayer for him before leaving Riverwood. The bandits had deserved their untimely demise, but the soldier had only been fighting for his life. Ophelia only hoped that his soul was at rest now, and that she one day might atone for his death. But in the meantime, she had to see a Jarl about a dragon. And it was already proving to be a difficult task, if the guards outside the gates had been any indication. She had finally resorted to threats after it became apparent that they didn't intend to let her pass. The soldiers inside the wall were no better, eyeing her suspiciously as she ascended districts of Whiterun, though she was too distracted to notice.
"By the Maker, there are a blasted lot of stairs." she thought sourly. Her new armor, while sturdy, certainly wasn't the easiest thing to carry. Perhaps, if she could gather enough septims, she could afford something lighter? Maybe a nice bow too, with plenty of arrows. And a shield! A shield would be absolutely necessary if she wore lighter armor. Alvor had tried to give her one before she had left the forge, but she hadn't the strength to carry it along with her food, sword, and whatnot. The supply of plants she had gathered on her way hadn't helped either. But how could she pass up an opportunity for free potion ingredients? She had even found a single Nirnroot growing by the river, the ringing sound of it dragging her from the road in recognition. It was useless to her personally, she didn't usually dabble in potions that caused damage, but it was surely worth a few septims to the local alchemist. She reached the top of the (seemingly endless) stairs slightly winded, and paused to look back on the city below. It was actually quite lovely from this height, she noted. Even the dying tree in the square below looked delicate and picturesque. Turning back to the task at hand, she took one more deep breath before raising her chin and putting on her most serious face. It was time to finish the task appointed to her. She felt her spirit flare gently in agreement before she opened the doors to Dragonsreach, feeling accomplished.
Much later, standing by the smoking skeleton of a newly dead dragon, she wondered if perhaps she had been cursed at birth. It looked as if she was doomed to cross paths with these infernal creatures at every turn. And to make things even more complicated, she apparently had the power to take…something….out of them upon their death. What that something was exactly, she wasn't sure of yet. She could only say that it stoked the fires of her soul, made her feel powerful. The feeling was fleeting, though, and now she was mired in a combination of indignation and perplexity. To make matters worse, the contingent of soldiers she had been tasked to help were now giving her a wide berth as if she herself might breathe fire. Was it not enough that she went to that Maker-forsaken Barrow to retrieve the Dragonstone? She had practically WADED through legions of draugr for the blasted thing. Even the good amount of treasure she'd found while searching wouldn't be able to erase the memory of rotting arms swinging axes and swords at her while emitting those awful, ear-splitting shrieks. Not to mention the last one she faced, who had been well armored and exceedingly difficult to kill. She'd given his (re)dead body a good kick after ripping the stone from his decaying person. There was also the matter of the wall….she had approached it, only to have incomprehensible words burned into her brain as the world blurred around her. She'd just wanted to look at it, damn it! Ophelia, stewing in her own ill fortune, didn't notice that the Jarl's housecarl, Irileth, had approached until the woman gave a discreet cough. She twisted her head to glance at the Dunmer, who looked just as haughty now as she did in Dragonsreach. In fact, her expression looked almost…scornful? Oh, this didn't bode well…..
"We thank you for your help, adventurer. But your magic tricks were not necessary."Irileth sniffed, derision evident in her voice and manner.
"Magic tricks?"
"Yes, magic tricks. Everyone knows that there haven't been a dragonborn in ages."
"Dragonborn?" Ophelia asked, only to be drowned out by another speaker.
"But there might be now!" A soldier piped up from their left. Upon watching their leader approach her without harm, the rest of the group had apparently grown bold and moved closer as well.
"Yeah, Irileth, Baldr is right. I mean, we did JUST kill a dragon. And they've been extinct for centuries! Who says that the dragonborn didn't come back with them?"
"Nobody asked you for your opinion, Sven."The housecarl sneered, turning her head away as if to deny the existence of such stupidity.
'Can you do a shout, miss?" An aging guard quietly asked Ophelia, a wary look of wonder on his face.
"A shout?" She asked curiously.
"The dragonborn were famous for them."He explained. "Rumor is that they could use the dragon's own language against them in battle."
Ophelia thought about the wall, the word in her mind that she'd never seen before but knew as if she'd been born reading it. This was madness of course. How could shouting a word do anything but make her throat hurt? But there HAD been a dragon. And she WAS experiencing a long bout of absurd situations right now. Maybe…..? She did an about-face, keeping the group at her back as she drew in a long breath. Couldn't hurt to check, could it?
"FUS!" She roared.
And the inferno answered. She felt pure energy leaving her chest as the word spilled out of her mouth and knocked over even more of the now decrepit watchtower.
There was silence behind her, broken only by the irritated voice of Irileth.
"Well that still doesn't prove anything!"
In the Shivering Isles, the City of New Sheoth was alive with its usual chaos. The demented laughed and cried, content in their frenzied existence, and gave praise to the Daedra who was their Lord. In the Palace, however, something was starting that would change the lives of all who lived within the borders of the Asylums.
"HASKILL!"A voice roared through the halls. "HASKILL! YOU'RE NEVER AROUND WHEN I NEED YOU!"
"Coming, my Lord."Answered the man in question, voice never rising above monotone. He sighed the sigh of a man resigned to his duty. It seemed that his Lord was finally home again. He had been the chamberlain of Sheogorath for many centuries now, and felt that he was adequately prepared for whatever schemes his master had cooked up in his sojourn to the mortal realm. After all, madness was commonplace here. He doubted he could be surprised at anything at all now.
"HAAASKIIIIILLLLLL! BRING CHEESE! A WHOLE WHEEL THIS TIME!"
Giving another small sigh, Haskill transported himself to the kitchen. Moving quickly (for it was never wise to keep any daedra waiting, especially Sheogorath) he selected one of the best Eidar cheese wheels and placed it daintily on a delicate silver serving tray. Summoning a portal, he stepped deftly into the distortion of space and reappeared in the throne room just as his Lord drew unneeded breath to scream again.
"HASK-"
"Right here, my Lord." The chamberlain said calmly, standing at attention as Sheogorath turned from his position in front of the Font of Madness. He held the serving tray aloft as the Mad God approached, not even batting an eyelash when the cheese was snatched away at an alarming speed. It did give him pause, however, when the entire wheel was dunked without preamble into the waters of madness.
"My Lord?" He queried, bemused by the events taking place. "You do understand that you are madness itself? Eating food soaked in the Font won't make you any more unbalanced."
"Of course I know that, Haskill! Why wouldn't I know that? Why do YOU know that?! Are you trying to usurp my crown!?" Sheogorath bellowed, taking care to make sure the cheese was evenly coated. He hadn't even bothered to roll up his sleeves, Haskill noted, which wasn't unusual when his Lord was in a fit of inspiration. His form, though, was very strange. That particular face hadn't been used in well over two centuries now.
"No, Sir, I doubt that I have the temperament necessary to be the epitome of insanity."
"Right you are! You're far too uptight to rule here. And don't forget it! Or I'll use your skull to store my pebble collection in!" Sheogorath replied, pulling the foodstuff out of the Font and inspecting it thoroughly. It glowed faintly before fading into its original appearance. Looking satisfied, he turned to Haskill with a happily manic expression. Haskill, at the same time, was suddenly struck with a feeling of oncoming panic. That expression usually meant that he would be required to oversee some ridiculous task while his Lord bustled off to other distractions. He girded himself for the worst. Sheogorath, as he was inclined to do only some of the time, did not disappoint.
"I need a new dress, Haskill. Several, in fact. And new armor, the best that can be offered in the Shivering Isles. Fetch me a seamstress and a blacksmith! We've got work to do before the big day!
"Dresses, my Lord?"gasped the Breton, looking faintly shocked. "Armor? For what day?"
"For the BIG day, Haskill! Now get to it! I don't pay you to stand around gaping like a beheaded Orc!"
"You don't pay me at all, Lord Sheogorath."
"Do I not? Well, I can't be expected to remember everything, can I? Now get moving! Events are marching on and our time is running out! Already, the first trial is finished!"
"Trial, Sir?"
"Nevermind, Haskill. Hurry, I must depart for the mortal realm again soon. And there is much to do before I leave."
"As you command, my Lord."
The Mad God watched as his servant immediately disappeared into another portal, focused on the task given to him. He then turned his attention back to the cheese, muttering to himself as he stalked to his throne.
"I've got the cheese, now all I need is wine. And atmosphere! Maybe someplace with candlelight? Or lava? Either way, soft lighting is a must."
And so it was that Sheogorath, Mad Prince of Oblivion, planned for his next meeting with the dovakiin.