Fahiil
Thera
"DOVAHKIIN!"
The shout echoed down from the mountain at the heart of Skyrim, the Throat of the World. The noise shook the ground beneath my feet, the sky glowed with power, and the air shivered with anticipation. My soul seemed to do the same. The words ring clearly in my ears even now, after so much time has passed. DOVAHKIIN. My mind could not make sense of the word that tore across an entire province, but my soul... my soul burned for the word. Every syllable, every letter called my soul and tugged my feet towards the mountain and off my path towards the Thalmor embassy.
Somehow, I was able to stop myself. The air around me shivered again for a moment, then I was free. The call was silent, yet present, in my bones. I pieced the word together with my own tongue, "Dov-ah-kiin," I whispered. A shiver ran up my spine that echoed the word, the noise bouncing between my vertebrae. Honestly, the power of the word was – is – intoxicating.
I turned my feet from the mountain and the call of the word went silent once again. I nearly muttered the word to myself once more, but was able to resist. Another utterance of that word would have destroyed my will to resist its call entirely. Instead, my feet pounded Northward across the dirt of the frigid Nord homeland.
Days later, I stood within the personal chambers of the Thalmor ambassador to Skryim. "Thera, how goes the mission?" the High Elf asked. She uncrossed her arms and stared down at me. She narrowed her eyes. "I assume there have been... complications."
I laughed dryly. "Indeed there have, Ma'am," I replied. I smiled, amused. "The world has become a very interesting place as of late, hasn't it?" I ran my fingers across my elven helmet on the table, tracing the intricate designs of my ancestors – designs butchered by the humans who had attempted to emulate them.
Elenwen's usually cold, stressed face broke into a small smile for a moment. "Indeed it has," she agreed. Then her face returned to its stony demeanor. "But enough with pleasantries. Report."
I nodded obediently and took a deep breath. "There are, what I believe to be, three elements that could threaten the extension of the civil war. The first of these elements is known to you."
"The dragons," Elenwen remarked. "Indeed. What of them?"
"I recently had the... opportunity," I explained, "to observe one in action."
Elenwen's expression lit up. "You have my undivided attention," she stated. She took a step closer and leaned forward intently.
"Dragons are... forces of nature. Their scaly hides can take immeasurable punishment, deflecting swords and magicka. I saw a single dragon kill a small army of human soldiers in a few moments. They breathe fire using Magicks I have never before encountered in my missions and travels. Some form of speech that creates fire. Dragon wings beat hard enough to repel arrows, and their claws and teeth easily carve through armor and flesh. They are incredibly strong, and look down on all mortals."
"They are gods?" Elenwen asked.
"Perhaps. More likely they are children of the Aedra," I theorized. "Perhaps even the immortal ancestors of the now-mortal Argonians or the Akavir invaders from the second era."
"Did you discover any weaknesses?" Elenwen asked after a short silence.
"Next to none, I am afraid. The eyes, apparently, are weaker than the surrounding scales. However, the fire breathing and sword-like teeth make them a less than viable option." I sighed. "Other than that... well, I'll explain a bit more with the second complication.
"The second issue is one of the other prisoners from Helgen. Lucius, the half Manmer half-Imperial."
"What could be so dangerous about a human?" Elenwen laughed. "Are you losing your touch?"
I sneered openly at my superior's mocking tone. "Coming from one that hasn't seen battle since the great war? Please. Besides, this human has a... fire. He killed the dragon, and from its body he took everything. The flesh of the creature melted into nothingness, feeding the human. The guards claimed he was a mythical being if he could do that. One who could absorb the souls of Dragons. The Dragonborn."
Elenwen's face froze in fear. "D-Dragonborn? Are you sure that's what you heard?"
I analyzed my superior's expression. "Yes. I'm sure."
She shook her head fearfully. "Dragonborn – again? Dammit," she barked. She caught my confused expression and began to laugh. "The Dragonborn are warriors capable of... destroying armies. The last Dragon-blood warrior conquered all of Tamriel, fought his way through countless enemies, and defeated the Aldmeri Dominion. Tiber Septim – a supposed god – was the last Dragonborn. Another could mean... damn."
"Do wish for me to kill him?" I asked.
"No... Not yet. He can kill dragons, and is thus useful. Perhaps even necessary. The Blades have something to do with this... I know it... I will information gathered on the surviving Blades, on Esbern especially. And this Lucius... the name sounds familiar to me..." Elenwen's mind drifted away into thought.
"Do you want me to finish my report?" I asked. It was an interruption of her thoughts, and surprised the woman. She glared at me, unforgiving, for a moment, then nodded. "The third element that threatens the war is whatever made that noise days ago. They were calling something powerful, I'm not sure what. But the earth shook from their power."
"'Dovahkiin?'" Elenwen asked. I felt a shiver run up my back again and my feet itched to rush towards the mountain again. "We heard it. It's just gibberish."
"Perhaps..." I agreed silently. "I request that you allow me to investigate. Whatever it is that called out, knowledge on their existence will be important."
"Fine," Elenwen acquiesced. "Report in as soon as you are finished, however." I nodded obediently. "Dismissed."
Jul
Lucius
The Throat of the World is the tallest mountain in all of Tamriel. The Nords believe that the peak of the mountain is where Kyne first breathed a new type of life onto Nirn and birthed mankind from the earth and sky. The Nords believe, thus, that Skyrim is the true homeland of man, from where the Nedes traveled to Atmora before recorded history. For this reason, since the dawn of history, the mountain has been a holy place for all kinds of Man. The same religious beliefs have led some Mer to hold it has become a hateful place, the womb of their most hated enemy. If the rumors are to be believed, the Dominion had a plan to melt it down to slag during the Great War.
"Seven thousand steps," I mumbled to myself as I came to the top of the mountain, a frost troll skull tied atop my pack. "More like the path of seven hundred steps." I had, to my shame, counted the many stone stairs that jutted out from the mountain face even while I fought frost trolls and ice wraiths. Neighboring the stairway had been tablets containing vague fragments of the Greybeard's history. The stories didn't make much sense to me, at the time, but they do now.
The general idea of the tablets was a terrible yet beautiful history. It spoke of a war from beyond the earliest edge of human time where man and dragon tore across the land, setting the ground itself ablaze. Humanity, somehow, won against the dragons and their leader Alduin. Life continued on, and the Voice's power was taken for granted for centuries. Eventually, Dragonborn – or Dovahkiin – came and went through the eras and the warrior Jurgen Windcaller formed the Greybeards to guide Skyrim and the Dragonborn in the Way of the Voice.
"Hello?" I asked the dark castle as I crept in. I shoved the heavy stone door open and looked around. "Hello!?"
"I do not like this, My Thane," Lydia said from behind me. I turned to look at the brunette Nord, who stood with her weapons ready to defend my life against countless threats on my life. "We should leave."
"Oh, live a little, Lydia," I joked. I grinned. "Balgruuf said it's safe here."
"Dovahkiin," a Voice whispered. I felt power creep up my spine, and I turned to the source of the noise. An old man with a huge gray beard stared at me with a twinkle in his eye. "Dragonborn."
I gulped down my fear. I took a short breath, then spoke to the man. "Greetings, Master Greybeard – I am answering your summons."
"Indeed. I am Master Arngeir, I speak for the other Greybeards," the old man said. A twinkle ran through his eyes.
"Why?" I asked. "Can't they talk for themselves?"
Arngeir chuckled softly. "Yes and no. Their Voices have become... powerful, over the years. There are many dangers associated with their Thu'um. Enough of this, though." Arngeir waved his hand dismissively, then stood straight and stared into my eyes. "Let us taste of your Voice to see if you are truly Dragonborn."
"Like... how?" I asked.
The old man laughed at my bewildered expression. From the corners of my vision, I could see his many counterparts walking silently into the room. "Shout for us, the Voice of the Dragons. We heard it from across Skyrim."
"You mean... FUS -" Green energy fled from my lungs, colliding with the old man's frame.
ArngeirThe old man staggered backwards with a surprised look on his face. "Oh, gods. I'm sorry, I didn't know that would -"
Arngeir merely laughed. "You are Dragonborn indeed!" he said between laughs. "Good. There is much we must teach you."
"I am eager to learn," I told the Greybeard. He nodded graciously.
"Good. You have already taken your first steps towards mastery of the Voice alone –" the man began.
"W-what is the Voice, if I may ask?" I interjected.
"Ah, our Legends say that the Dragon-blood warriors often ask that question," he replied. "Do not feel embarrassed. The Voice is the language of the Dragons themselves, a primal speech that affects change upon the physical world. Because of this, there is little difference between a debate and a fight amongst Dragonkind – to argue is to kill."
"So... You want me to talk to Dragons?" I joked incredulously.
"We want nothing of you, Dragonborn. In fact, our duty is to you," the man said. He sighed. "The Voice, for mortals, is a tool granted by the Divines themselves. We must live in a way befitting such a tool – peacefully."
"But I can't do that – I need to help the people. Maybe this isn't the best id-"
"Ah, but the Dragon blood is also a gift," Arngeir noted. "One destined for power and legend – to deny one gift for another would be wrong, correct?"
I considered what he said silently. "The Dragonborn is often the exception to the rule," Arngeir noted.
I nodded. "Then teach me," I implored.
"Of course, Dovahkiin," the man stated. The other Greybeards gathered around Arngeir, and I noticed that their group's name fit them all well – each was a man advanced in age with a long, gray beard dangling from his chin. "You already know the first word of the Unrelenting Force shout, so we will teach you the next."
"Ro," one of the men whispered at the ground. I turned to where the man stared at the stone, and watched with awe as carvings of the Dragon Language burned through the ground. The sound of Ro ran through my soul, echoing through even the darkest regions of my soul.
"Now, Master Einhart will grant you his understanding of Ro," Arngeir explained as the meaning of Ro – Balance – echoed through my mind just behind the word itself. I saw that Fus and Ro were intrinsically linked, Force and Balance. A measured, concentrated effect that could effect great change upon the world. I saw one of the old men bowing to me – Einhart.
"That was... odd," I mumbled.
"Now demonstrate your power for us, Dragonborn. Hit the targets as they appear."
"Wha-" I began. I was cut off by more of the Dragon Language echoing through the room. Ghostly copies of the Greybeards appeared around me and ran to attack. "What are you doing?"
"Thane!" Lydia shouted, worried. I heard her blade draw from its sheath and she ran to my side. Her blade flew through the body of one of the copies, but did nothing. Slash after slash passed harmlessly through the etherial fake, the blue body of the ghost-like creature merely phasing through the steel. The copy, angered, lashed out at Lydia with a kick. My Housecarl fell backwards from the supernatural force of the kick and was out of the fight.
"So no swords, then," I grumbled. I stared at the four Pseudo-Greybeards advancing towards me and gritted my teeth. "Magicka probably won't work either... If they want a shout... FUS...RO!"
The air in the room exploded away from me, and the four Greybeard copies disappeared. "Incredible..." Arngeir said as the echoes of my Voice traveled through the stone monastery. I stared down at the man who seemed, suddenly, so fragile and weak.
"Don't do that again," I threatened. I jabbed my finger at Arngeir angrily, then went over to help the now-awake Lydia to her feet.
"O-of course," Arngeir said with a bow of his head. He stood up suddenly and shifted on his feet. "Dragonborn... there is one more thing you must do..."
I sighed. There always was. "Well?"
"You must travel far to obtain a mystical object of great import to our order. It is a task that only you – only the Dovahkiin can complete. This will be the final step in our proclaiming you Ysmir, Dragon of the North.. You will travel far and wide, hunting Draugr and evil mages. You may even die by their hand. Survival however, will grant you great power and honor. The Dragonborn has always taken this item from whence it is hidden, and brought it back to the Greybeards."
I was excited. It sounded like an incredibly powerful weapon. A scroll or sword or something that would help me in my travels. Something... amazing. "Go and find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller in Ustengrav." My jaw almost fell. A horn. They wanted a horn? Don't know why I expected something dangerous and powerful from the pacifist monks.
Still, I forced a courteous smile. "Of course, Master Arngeir. We'll be back soon."
