The Night of Silence was scarcely believed, 'till the Dragonborn descended with his foe still living.
His bane now his brother, Alduin was free to reassert his rule over all. How the dragons rallied with the betrayal of prophecy! Upon Skyrim they descended fearlessly, and in flame and fang they forged for themselves a new empire. Resistances were subjugated. Enemies were crushed. Allies were rewarded. The old ways burned, and in their ashes rose the seat of the World-Eater's power.
Some say the purge took a single year. Some believe ten. It ended over a hundred years ago.
The Fourth Era dissolved into memory as the age of dragon supremacy dawned.
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-Ross-
Dragonsong followed Ross in from the wilderness as he stepped into the inn.
The chatter ceased briefly as the door opened and closed. When the townsfolk saw no villain standing in the doorway, no robed and masked figure preaching gospel of dragons, they turned away, speaking again in low, hushed voices. It was familiar to Ross, the frightened glances and the whispered conversations. Very familiar.
He pushed back his travelstained hood and let his hair air in the dry smoky climate of the inn. It was thick hair, tangled and dark copper, tumbling around his collar. Ross closed his eyes and savoured the peace, then made his way to the counter. The innkeeper was perhaps the only man who recognized him.
"Carlos, isn't it? Bless my stars, it's been a while."
Ross smiled politely as he seated himself. "Aye, that it has, Sarrolf. Two years, I believe."
"Two years…Ysmir's beard." Sarrolf whistled through his soiled yellow whiskers, then ducked down behind the counter. "But I still remember your favourite. Warm, dry ale, am I right?"
"For Carlos, aye," said Ross, pushing three golden septims across the counter.
The men beside him studied him with new eyes. "That a fox pin on your cloak?" one asked.
Ross traced it with a fingertip. "That it is, good men."
"Freerider," they said, and one raised his brow while the other sat to attention. "Hell, and here we'd thought we'd seen the last of 'em round here."
"We tend not to linger in one place long," said Ross, and accepted the tankard.
The two men were not so easily dismissed. "So," one prompted, "what's the word of…well, out there? The world?"
Ross took a decent swallow.
"We've heard of trouble in the east, snippets of conversation from passing dragonmen," the other murmured, looking about furtively. "They plunder the tundra there, causin' much grief as they would, rebellious men they are."
"Rebels." Ross replaced the tankard on the bar and turned to face them. "Not quite. They've been calling themselves the Raiders, from what I've heard. Nord men and women of Old. They keep their own gods, to the traditions Skyrim hasn't seen since a hundred years back."
"The old way…" The two men exchanged a glance. "You mean…?"
Ross checked for interested ears, then whispered one word: "Talos."
He lifted his cup again and swirled the contents about. "I've ridden through the east," he went on, "and learned many strange things. The dragons name it Jergevild—" His pronunciation of the guttural dragon tongue was coarse at best. "—as they would, but the Nords of Old go by it as Eastmarch. They resist their dragon overlords openly. Thus have they been named rebels, heathens and traitors to Skyrim."
"Traitors," one man echoed disbelievingly, hissing through his whiskers. His fist clenched. "Traitors for what, for fighting for what men should be, free? Skyrim must be free. It was free long ago."
"So many say," said Ross thoughtfully. "One hundred years, when you think about it, is not so long ago." He spared the men a glance. "And these men are old. They remember the old way of your Nordic people. When men lived free and dragons were the hunted ones."
"Do they tell stories?" asked one, leaning closer. "What stories?"
"Stories, no." Ross sipped the ale. Dark and dry. "Legend, however, they do."
"Legend?" echoed the other.
"Aye." Ross thought back to nights spent by their tavern fires, listening. "There's a song they like to keep to, to sing when the dragonmen aren't near. The Song of the Dragonborn, they call it."
The men's faces tightened in fearful anger. "The Dread? They praise him?"
"Not him, no," said Ross carefully, "they sing for a different sort. They claim Dragonborn were meant to be champions of gods, heroes of the people, and the one they speak of is just that, a warrior so mighty he was favoured by our old gods, destined to strike down the World-Eater himself."
There was a short, brooding silence. Ross drank his ale.
"If only I could believe that," one grumbled at last. "If only, though, and if-onlys aren't going to keep you living. Living keeps you living, and wagging a tongue about that sort of false-hope is only going to get the people upset."
Ross held up a hand for peace. "A freerider takes no sides," he reminded them. "Think me a mockingbird than a fox; I say what I hear, no more and no less."
"Not blaming you," the man said. "Freeriders will be freeriders." He drank some, and set his tankard down. "What of the other holds? Any news?"
"From the north?" Ross thought for a moment. "Ah, yes. His honour Dragonlord Vylornar is leading a cohort of dragons and dragonmen to perform a census of the cities there. It's a prospect I've heard many say they fear, and rightly so, if what I've also heard of Vylornar's exploits is true."
"With dragonmen, they always are," the other growled.
"Have you seen Vylornar in the flesh?" the man asked.
Ross shook his head. "And I count myself lucky I haven't as of yet," he said. "Nonetheless, it will only be a matter of time before I do, surely. My travels take me to all places of the province, and Vylornar may call upon my wisdom of the world should he ever see me on the road." He thought of all he had heard from the many tongues that wagged of the Dragonlord; a close follower of the World-Eater, they sang him to be, an Altmer of fearsome stature, dreaded wielder of fire, bearing a dragon's wicked heart. But then again, tales were usually exaggerated, especially from the mouths of the frightened. He took a thoughtful sip of his drink.
"What of the west?" the other inquired.
"Little has happened," said Ross, "other than the wolves have grown restless of late; they attack the isolated hovels and towns with great savagery, tens dead with every raid."
"No surprise at that," they supposed. "With dragons burning down more of their forest every day, it's no wonder they're driven to hunt men," one man muttered. "One day," the other predicted, "they'll start hunting dragons. Serve 'em bastards right."
"Shh." His companion nudged his ribs. "Any dragonman hears your tongue wagging that, you'll lose it."
The man fell obligingly silent, scowling into his tankard.
"The stonehold, then," said the first man, "what news of it?"
"It would be old news I tell you of that place, and rumours I have learned from other tongues," said Ross. "I am yet to return there. My work has kept me oft riding to the east, north and west. The greenwood south and stonehold west, I know little certain of." He drank. "All I can imagine is that the dragons have been killing, razing, destroying, nesting and breeding in the remains of shattered human lives, as they have done since the Dragonborn turned to Alduin's cause. And the southern fires, of course." His countenance turned grim. "There are always fires burning in the southern provinces now."
There was a short, uneasy silence at this, until at last the first man asked, "So where are you headed now?"
"Now?" Ross shrugged. "I have no work for now. I might stay a little in Hillhaven…"
"You're free for hire?" The other seemed quite excited. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a slightly crumpled letter. "Please, sir, would you ride to Whiter—I mean to say, Ahgelingrah—" He stumbled especially badly over the dragon word, Ross noted. "—and deliver this to a woman named Salda? She worries if I don't write for a while. She's a fruit seller, last I recall, working in the commons market."
Ross took the letter. "Payment?"
His client swiftly withdrew a pouch and set it on the counter. It made a healthy clatter, but Ross still took the pouch and ran his fingers against the thin, brown skin, feeling out each coin, just to check he wasn't being cheated. How many had tried with a freerider… "This should cover the cost," he said, pocketing it, "if it's only to Ahgelingrah."
"Yes," said his client, "I doubt she would have moved."
That Ross could agree to; it was the reason why freeriding was such a valued occupation in these dark and dangerous times. Freeriders were the men and women who swore absolute neutrality between mortal and dragon, who took no sides and lived homeless lives directed only by the patronage of the homely men and women wishing to stay in contact with divided family and friends. Messengers, freeriders were oft called as well. Easy prey, the dragons said. But Ross had been a freerider near all his life, and he was especially wise in the nature of travel. As of yet, he and his Cyrodiilian-bred mount, a foreigner to these lands just as he was, had not ever been preyed by hunting dragons.
He pocketed the letter, fingers brushing the strap that held his crossbow, pinned in its sheath against his back. Its presenting weight comforted him, reminded him that should danger ever threaten, he was not entirely defenseless. "On my honour as a messenger, I will endeavour to see this letter reach its destination," he said formally.
"Thank you, sir." The man was grateful. "Carlos, the innkeeper named you?"
Ross smiled wryly at that. He was wiser than most freeriders. Men who kept one name could easily be traced. He had a name for every city, town, hovel and village he visited, and not one of them was the one his mother had given him; he rode the roads nameless. "Aye," he said simply, the Nordic way. He brushed back a strand of hair and downed the last of his ale. "And since I have work, it is probably best I leave as quick as I can."
"But you've only just arrived," the innkeeper protested, who appeared to have been listening to every word. "Not to mention it's darkening out there…"
"Wolves, sabre cats and bears I'd rather face than dragons," said Ross gravely, sliding down from the barstool. "And dragons hunt best in daytime. I prefer the night to day when travelling; dragons can't smell nearly as well as they can see, what with their snouts full of soot."
And he hated lingering idle, he truly did. Riding had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, and he grew restless if he stayed in one place for too long. He relished movement, which was a boon in these times; those who didn't oft got killed eventually. Grateful for the contract to keep him busy, the Imperial freerider returned to the outside, immersed in the dragonsong haunting the horizons since before he had been born.
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[A/N]: Greetings all, and warm welcomes to this cold-hearted Tyranny!
Continuing work on my other current fanfictions has proven very difficult. Nobody seems to want to do anything anymore in them. While I quietly twist their arms back into the groove, I decided to focus on a novel and finish it, and this is what has been done. It worked well, so I'll be following that method of finish-first-post-second from now on.
This work was semi-inspired by my current all-time favourite fantasy series, A Song of Ice and Fire. Martin's method of Point of View changes was enlightening, so I'll be following that layout a little and in doing so covering this universe from several aspects. Hopefully it won't be too confusing. I've decided to keep this novel small in regard to POV characters, to allow me to build upon this alternate reality of a Skyrim changed for the worse. Ideas came to me as I first wrote the draft of this novel, so they too shall be (hopefully!) introduced slowly.
For the first few chapters I'll be writing little introductions as I've now done twice previously, to teach you bit by bit about this world and understand the differences that have ensued with the Dragonborn's betrayal of his destiny. Freeriders and Dragonlords, for example, are just two of the many new lifestyles that have arisen in response to the Fifth Era.
(There is a map detailing Skyrim's multitude of new settlements and cities on my DeviantArt account, if pictures serve better than words!)
((My account can be accessed from Google, same penname, or from the link on my profile))