He had been told at the briefing that Valtheim would be a dangerous post; being on the border between Eastmarch and White Hold, it changed hands almost weekly. They didn't mention any gods-damned dragons, De'vohn had thought when that gargantuan monster had flown overhead. He had asked the captain if he should go down the road to check it out, but his superior had declined to give permission to leave his position. He hated the Legion. He hated the Stormcloaks, too, but they hadn't apprehended him and forced him to join their ranks. They would have, he was sure, if given the chance, but they hadn't yet. They were better for that, if only just.
Three weeks ago, De'vohn had been inside a Dwarven ruin in the Rift, close to finding the legendary Aetherium forge. He had visited the College in Winterhold months before to compare notes with the Archmage, who had also been conducting research into the subject, though not in the field for at least two years. After speaking with her for several hours, he believed he had finally narrowed down its location. It was housed in a hidden Dwemer ruin in the Rift, which needed four shards of pure Aetherium to open the stairwell to it. The Archmage had had one, and he had gathered the rest. He had used the rest of his money to pay off the bandits who had set up a camp over the ruins, figuring that the items that could be created by the forge would be worth a fortune. He had slept in his own tent for the night, and awoke the next morning to pandemonium. An Imperial camp garrison had been dispatched to the ruin to scour the bandit camp, as it had been located too close to the camp for comfort. Half of the bandits were cut down before the rest broke ranks and scattered into the forest.
The Imperials had assumed that he was their leader, no doubt convinced by his better quality armor and the fact that he had slept in his own tent. They had given him an ultimatum: join the Legion, or go to prison. Naturally, De'vohn had elected to join the Legion rather than rot in jail, and so he had ended up here at Valtheim for his first post. As cannon fodder in a war he cared nothing about.
De'vohn stood on the road, his leather helmet doing little to protect his head from the torrential down pour. He thought he had heard a dragon's death throes a moment before, but it had been drowned out by a thunderclap, so he couldn't be sure. He was about to change shifts with another Auxiliary when he saw a large Nord stumbling up the road with what looked to be a corpse in his arms. He turned around and ran into the south tower, up the stairs and across the bridge to the north tower, where the base of operations was located. De'vohn pounded up the stairs and faced his captain, who quickly took her feet off of her desk and tried her best to conceal the fact that she had been sleeping on the job. De'vohn tried his best to ignore it.
"The hell do you want now, Auxiliary?" She asked groggily.
"There's a Nord carrying a body to the east on the road. I'm going to check it out." He quickly turned towards the stairwell, but was stopped by the captain's sharp reply.
"I'm sorry, Auxiliary, I think you were drowned out by a thunderclap there. Care to repeat what you just said?"
De'Vohn clenched his jaw. "Permission to investigate, ma'am?" He said through gritted teeth. The captain gave a curt nod, and De'vohn headed back to the road. He arrived just in time to meet the man and stop him from continuing up the road. Apparently bemused that he had to go through an Imperial checkpoint, the Nord grimaced. The man explained his situation to De'vohn, who quickly the corpse's pulse. To his surprise, she was still alive, if catatonic and feverish, but he knew that if the pair were unable to reach the temple in Whiterun within the next fifteen minutes, she was as good as dead. Walking, they would never make it in time. He ran to the makeshift stables, took the fastest horse, and brought it to the Nord.
"Get on and ride for Whiterun, don't stop, don't slow down. I'll follow behind on foot," he told the man. The Nord gingerly placed the woman in the saddle, then climbed up onto the horse himself, where he hesitated for a moment, probably due to exhaustion.
"GO!" De'vohn shouted, and smacked the horse's rump with his left hand, setting the animal running at full gallop down the road. He had a feeling that the great speed would not do wonders for the woman's condition, but there was no other option. He ran into the south tower to collect his meager belongings, not bothering to tell anyone where he was going. He scarfed down an invisibility potion he had smuggled in and took off down the road in pursuit of the pair. He knew he would never come back to the Legion, not after today. He had recognized that woman; she was the Archmage of the College of Winterhold. He didn't know why she traveled with the strange Nord, but he knew that whatever the reason was, and whatever quest they were embarked upon, it was more important than his current occupation. He ran through the midnight rain to Whiterun a deserter, an outlaw. But now, at least, he had regained a purpose.
...
De'vohn arrived at Whiterun fifteen minutes after Raven and the Nord, and made for the inn where he knew the Nord would go after leaving the Archmage in the care of the healers at the Temple of Kynareth. He walked in, took off his helmet, and sat by the fire, trying to dry off his saturated fur. Khajiit were not designed well for rain, he thought as he wrung out his tail with one hand, ignoring the weird look he got from the Altmer across the fire. He was used to that. Since the Great War had left both of his parents dead when he was only five, he had been raised in Skyrim by foster parents. Naturally, he had adopted many customs and mannerisms of his surrogate family, including his speech patterns, his habit of wringing his fur out when wet, along with many others. An hour later, after De'vohn had passed the time talking to a wine enthusiast and a wizard that seemed enthralled with dragons, the Nord finally arrived.
He had sensed vaguely when he had first seen him that there was something different about the man, but now his suspicions were all but confirmed. As the Nord walked in, the very air seemed to tingle with an ancient power, and most of the patrons in the inn stopped to look at him. Now, De'vohn had heard of the dragon that had been sighted near Whiterun, and had heard the Graybeards call the Dovahkiin, but he had not made the connection earlier. The Dragonborn had killed that dragon, been summoned to High Hrothgar, and sought out the help of the Archmage. De'vohn suddenly felt that the quest this man and Raven were embarked upon was far above him, but decided to pose the question anyway, realizing that the worst they could do was refuse his help. Considering the odds they were up against, that didn't seem likely. The Nord sat down at a table in the corner of the inn, but De'vohn caught his eye and gestured for him to take a seat with him by the fire. The Dragonborn hesitated, possibly taking into account the fact that De'vohn had still not returned to his post at Valthiem, effectively making him a deserter, but eventually walked over to him. The Nord sat down next to De'vohn, evidently still wary of his intentions. His eyes lingered on De'vohn's right hand. Rather, the lack thereof. De'vohn quickly pulled his sleeve down over his stump, both to make the man feel more at ease, and to hide the Dwemer sword mechanism that was attached to his arm. He handed the the Nord a bottle of Honningbrew mead as a welcoming gesture, which caused the man to become visibly more comfortable with De'vohn. After he had picked his own drink back up, De'vohn asked the Dragonborn his name.
"Daren, Daren Novak," he said in between drinks. "Yours?"
"I am De'vohn, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Dragonborn," he said, deliberately letting his as-yet unproven assumption slip to see how Daren would react. The Dragonborn's drink stopped midway to his mouth and he stared ahead for a moment, unblinking, before turning to De'vohn and eyeing him. De'vohn smiled in response, inviting Daren to speak.
The Nord huffed and said, "That obvious?"
De'vohn shrugged. "To an observant eye. Who else would travel with the Archmage in such troubled times? Who else would exert such an aura of power?" He took another sip of his drink.
Daren stretched out his legs and crossed his feet in front of him. Seemingly eager to turn the conversation away from himself, he asked, "Why don't you speak in third person like other Kahjiit?"
De'vohn smiled knowingly, but answered that he had been raised by foster parents in Skyrim. Daren nodded and stared into the fire. After a minute or two of silence came an abrupt question.
"Do you believe in fate?"
De'vohn was caught off guard, but recovered quickly.
"No," he said cautiously, as he knew most people were quite superstitious in most parts of Tamriel. "A man makes his own destiny. The factors that affect his decisions, I'm reasonably sure, are beyond his control, but I would not prescribe them to fate."
"To what would you prescribe it to, then?" the Dragonborn pressed.
"Chance," he stared down into his cup. "The Aedra would care little for mortals." He turned to Daren. "Why think they would care for our fate?"
De'vohn and Daren fell silent. "Which presents an interesting problem in your case," De'vohn said after a few moments. "You have been granted a gift, which makes you our only chance against the dragons. But you are not invincible. A stray arrow, an unblocked strike from a bandit... they could all easily end your life, and the world with it. You will need all the help, all the protection you can get." He looked Daren directly in the Nord's ice blue eyes. "I would ask that you let me accompany you and the Archmage."
Daren blinked and finished his mead in one tremendous gulp. He belched, then said, "I'd love for you to come, but I'll have to ask what Raven thinks."
Breathing a quick sigh of relief, De'vohn offered to pay for Daren's room. After paying the 20 septims needed, De'vohn nestled into a chair and drifted off to sleep, comforted in the knowledge that he was one step closer to becoming part of a tale that would be remembered for centuries.