4E, 201 -
The filthy Nord ran, bare feet shredding on the jagged stone and stick, embracing the pain she charged ahead unabated through the thick pine forest.
Death her only alternative, she was grateful for the pain, the blood, affirming she was still alive, she still existed... for now. The brushy trees and smooth boulders were a blur under her raging inferno of blood-red braids as her amber eyes aimed only for an escape.
The heavy pounding of hooves and the glint of armor on her shoulder said the Imperials were closing in. Hands bound, she hurdle a boulder only to land face to shield, head recoiling as skull cracked to stone.
As her mouth filled with the familiar metallic taste of blood washing over her tongue and past her lips, the world faded to the melody of gloating Imperial laughter and the clashing of steel...
In the darkness her mind wandered astray, echoing the voices she longed to silence as she tumbled through the darkness. The silence was lost from her once again, trapping her in her very own private realm of agony- infinitely repeating.
She saw the faces, she heard the sounds, and she begged for the silence to come back... The well known sting of Imperial presence radiating on her tongue as she came to.
The Nord would find herself in a cart, following a parade with others led by Imperials through a small village. Parents wrangled their children into the houses as they made their way down the dirt lane towards the headman's block.
Her company held several Stormcloaks, including none other than the great Ulfric Stormcloak himself, leader of the rebellion, student of the Greybeards, Jarl of Windhelm; the challenger who defeated the High King in fair combat. Ulfric had no doubt, earned for himself the title- despite the protests by many and yet to be officially proclaimed by the Moot.
A thief in the fourth seat began to panic, and the blonde Stormcloak soldier crossed from her bade them think of home in their final moments. The Nord turned her nose at this, but bit her tongue so as not to make the other's ends darker than need be.
Let them have illusions of which they are fond, 'If only I could partake such comfort', she thought, having accepted her fate. She lay her head on the bloodied wooden block only for a rigged, dark dragon to reign fire from the sky, setting the village ablaze.
Thanks to the kindness of the blonde Stormcloak at her side, Ralof of the Stormcloaks, she was able to make for an escape toward a nearby tower. Bolting for the door she laid eyes on the dragon rounding toward a young lad center of the dirt lane.
Dust scraped into the air as her bare soles skid crossed the gravel landing her inches from the beast as it rattled the earth under it's weight. Digging in heels she planted herself, shielding the path to the boy as amber eyes met with red.
The dragon seemed to almost smirk at the audacity before it blasted her with a shower of flames under a screeching roar. Engulfed in the blazing cyclone, she clenched her brow as the stink of smoldering hair and flesh filled her sinuses; the small boy clung to the back of her legs as they took the brunt of the flames in his stead, his screaming of terror over washed by the raging flames.
A deep rage churned in her gut before she loosed her battle cry in response tearing the flames asunder down the center. For brief moment the dark dragon was taken back. Much to it's surprise, the deep cold of her Thu'um chilled it's bones to the very core, and sent a shiver quaking through it's soul.
For the first time since the beginning of times, the black dragon felt what mortals feel, it felt... fear.
An imperial grabbed the boy and made for cover as the dragon took flight. She took her opening and ran for the tower behind Ralof. Inside she cleverly lifted the Imperial captain's armor giving them the edge as they fought through the bowels.
While perhaps not the most graceful presentation, she had little trouble picking up the lift and smash method of the mace she had found. Finally, they emerged from a cave below the tower into the woods outside the city.
Crouching behind a boulder they took cover, watching on until the dragon disappeared over the distant mountains. Ralof stood brushing his straight blond hair away from his blue eyes, "You handled yourself pretty well back there, friend. What should I call you? If you decide to put those skills to good use for the cause, I'd be honored to vouch for your valor in battle." her comrade greeted.
Her face paled slightly as she whispered nervously, "Dovaku."
They traveled the short road to a tiny town nearby and a bit north, Riverwood. A small bandit clan attacked on the road though the two made quick work of their dispersal. The Nord was pleased to claim from their bodies a hooded black mage robe.
Taking to opposite sides of the river the two took a moment to tend themselves. She cautiously looked round, then quickly peeled the heavy steel armor from her body thrusting the pieces with disgust to the muddy bank.
Wading into the shallow current of the river she hastily rubbed the soot, mud and blood from her flesh. The water clouded dark around her, filling to black swirling around red as she sunk shaking the gook from her scarlet braids.
Emerging swiftly she threw the black robes over, the warmth of the dark shield around her eased her nerves, though slightly. A wide, wicked, grin crept into the corner of her scarred plump lips as her honey eyes watched the imperial armor sinking below the surface to vanish beneath the waters.
The shadowy Nord quietly followed as Ralof spoke at length of many things, of the war, of his sister Gurder who he assured would help them, until they came to a set of Standing Stones, "Choose your path," Ralof bade her. She felt the pull of the mage stone, and so it was to be that the light blessed her pursuit of knowledge.
As they approached the gates of Riverwood Ralof looked on her with intrigue, and couldn't resist but state his observation, "You don't say much do you?"
When she remained silent, his peaked curiosity got the better of him, "Is it hard or something? Something to do with those... claw scars?"
Turning her gaze down she ran a finger over her lips, caressing each of the bumps slowly, shadows of their making in her mind before whispering her answer, "In my experience, the one who listens when others would speak, lives longer."
Ralof awkwardly rubbed his neck, feeling as though he may have touched on a sensitive subject.
"...Sorry," she continued, "That wasn't meant to be rude, though it proves my point. It... has been a long time, since I spoke with anyone. My social courtesy may be... a tad rusty."
The red head recoiled slightly as Ralof set a hand to her shoulder, "No worries my friend, I shouldn't have pried with such a thoughtless question. You should come to Windhelm, I get the feeling you've got the kind of fire to catch Ulfric's attention."
The Nord eyed him cautiously, and kept the rest of her thoughts to herself.
After speaking with Gurder and having a restful night, she agreed to take a message to the nearby capital city of Whiterun. With dragons about, Gurder feared Riverwood may be next and sought the Jarl to send troops for protection.
The Jarl, predictably seeing as she was the only one known to have faced a dragon and survived already, tasked her with defeating a dragon at his Western Watchtower. She joined his men in the battle slaying the beast.
As she stood over the massive body, a strange light absorbed into her from it.
"You're...Dragonborn!" the guards insisted.
So it began that she started down the path of her destiny.
While joining the Jarl's court as thane and purchasing a home her herself in Whiterun, she would join the ranks of the Companions taking into herself the blood of the beast, the spirit of the hunt, and became Werewolf in Hercine's honor.
Despite rising to Harbinger, the highest honor afforded in the Companions, she felt humbly out of place to lead such a legacy. Regardless, she tended the many works, able to keep her hands and mind busy for a time, maintaining the silence that she so cherished.
Alas, the Nord was an astute academic, and valued knowledge above all else, for a busy mind is less inclined to wander.
She would soon set out to answer the teachers of Dragonborn, the Greybeards, who dedicate their lives to the study of the Thu'um high atop Skyrim's tallest mountain. In Cyrodil she had been taught that Dragonborn was a heredity blessing, only handed down through the Septim bloodline.
Regardless the soul had filled her, and Greybeards did call. Hopefully they would have answers.
In the Cheyjinhal Highlands, she had been deprived of any knowledge and religiously reminded of her worthlessness, that she was a burden by her mere existence.
'Nord skulls are too thick for learning' she had been told.
'Do you think that food and warmth fall from the skies with lutes and brandy?!" she had often been scolded, as she was reminded that her life was owned by another, a plague on their being.
Her thoughts swelled as the idle work of climbing the mountain paved the way for the noise of her mind to intrude once again. Stair after stair she climbed, ever closer to High Hrothgar, closer to answering the summons of the Greybeards.
Surely the eldest and most well-respected scholars in Skyrim could teach her many things.
She sought knowledge, truth and understanding of all things.
Anything, for the gift of silencing her intrusive thoughts.
The Greybeards spoke of peace and passivity as the enlightened state of one who has mastered the Way of the Voice. To the Greybeards, The Way was more than a means to obtain the powers of the Dovah.
Fully embracing The Way was considered to be a mastering of the Thu'um, and the self-discipline not to use it.
This was enlightenment, according to the Greybeards.
It was the inherent nature of the Dovah, of the dragons, to seek dominance by employing their Thu'um -their voice- which was the projection of their soul's condensed force.
As Dragonborn, she could destroy a dragon completely by consuming it's very essence, it's soul.
She was told that she had the soul and carried the blood of a dragon, as blessed by Akatosh, God of Time and Father of Dovah, the anticipation of Anu, who took mercy on the mortals enslaved by his children at the dawn of creation.
This also allowed her to learn the Thu'um words of power - the dragon language- quickly, and she certainly held natural talent.
She took to it just as they described quickly learning the phrases and focusing her Thu'um.
She would soon speak with the leader, an ancient dragon named Parthenax who was the first and only known Dovah to embrace The Way.
He sought to defeat the great black dragon whom she learned was Alduin The World-Eater, Parthenax's former commander, the first son of Akatosh, who would devour all of existence in all of the realms, returning all to the stagnant light of nothings outside of time, unless the Dragonborn could defeat him.
Knowing her limited knowledge as it was, she knew she was not ready. Only a fool would face such a foe with careless haste.
No, she would need more knowledge before she could claim such a destiny.
In undertaking the many tests that the Greybeards tasked her with, though her power grew, the Dragonborn's inclination for knowledge would go unsatiated, growing into a gnawing hunger.
The Dragonborn would turn her attention to the college in the north, the only sanctuary for the study of the mage arts in all of Skyrim- the infamous Mage's College of Winterhold.
She made friends there, in particular a fellow Nord named Onmund would become her battle partner for a time.
Onmund was shunned by his family for seeking to learn the arts of the mage, which were to most Nords taboo and forbidden as 'the dark way of the elves'.
Not that one could objectively argue, given the history.
The elves with their mastery of the mage arts used it as a means to conquer the world, threatening the religious freedoms of the Nords as well as the elimination of all known existence, and sought to return all back to the nothing of light and stasis.
The elves lived the illusion that existence was a curse, keeping them from the light of what they deemed the everything, (even though it too, was nothing) trapped in bodies of mush and mud.
They sought to undo all that had changed, all that had been altered, since before the first something was created from the nothings; before the nothing was mutilated into a myriad of ideas.
It was known that the Empire, whose duty was to protect it's peoples, bent their knee to the elven Altmeri Dominion offering the religious freedom of the Nords of Skyrim, as well as their own people and founder, as payment for their lives in the surrender.
Yes, the Empire sold their people's right to worship their god to the Altmer, to protect the elites of power as the city was crushed under the onslaught.
The most damnable offense, in this act the Empire rebuked and betrayed their own god, who was the same as the Nord's and founded the once great Imperial nation, the divine Talos, first Dragonborn blessed by Akatosh, Divine of Dragons and Time, begat of Anu.
A weak nation no longer capable of protecting it's peoples, instead sold their freedom to self-preserve.
This was known as the White-Gold Concordat, 4E, 175.
It was no wonder that the native Nords, championed by Ulfric, would rebel against their oppressors -be they Imperial or Elven- within a year's time.
The Dragonborn could appreciate Onmund's pain and so they bonded in this as well as their eagerness for wisdom and rejections from society.
He was never sheepish in the face of danger, always ready and eager for any adventure he followed close at her side.
"Cave up ahead. Trouble?... or maybe treasure?" he would chime quirking a brow under his short bushy brown hair while charging a bolt, much to her amusement and delight.
Onmund never asked about her scars or pressed her for verbal engagement, fully content with the small crooked smile that crept into the corner of her mouth whenever she was pleased as a response.
Though the clench of her jaw, always put his nerves on edge...
The Dragonborn was, obviously, not one for making many words.
He understood her ways like no one before had, and this bonded them deeply, cementing their loyalties to one another in a way that words never could.
As seemed to be her curse though, things would quickly spiral out of control at the college as well. The Psyjic Order aided her in saving all of existence from the treachery of the Altmeri ambassador, Archano.
Archano sought to undo existence by means of that which created it on behalf of the Altmeri Dominion.
Having secured this relic, the Eye of Magnus, and executed Archano, the college named her Arch Mage in the wake of the former's demise.
So it was that the Dragonborn once more sought the taste of fresh knowledge, having exhausted the vast teachings of the collage far more than she could ever have anticipated.
The rest could only be earned by time sacrificed to practice and active pursuit of knowledge.
She left her most trusted colleague Onmund with the arch mage's robes as well as duties, including the Staff of Magnus should it be needed in her stay.
Her attention now turned to the south, preserving existence... and perhaps a bit of payback, the firey Nord sought to turn her sights to the matters of war, men, elves, and kings.
She would arrive in Windhelm after a treacherous journey through the blizzardous mountains to join the Stormcloak cause- freedom.
In her haste to seek the frozen city she found herself quite a bit off course, having veered far to the southeast.
On the dirt road in the valley she came across a large wooden crate carried by a wagon, stuck in the mud from a busted wheel.
The intriguing man in an odd red suit nearby squealed his cries, complaints, and pleadings at his predicament, "Befuddling, damnedest wagon wheel! Mother! Ooo oooh my poor Mother!" he screeched and groaned.
The Jester turned from his tantrum noticing her approach, "You there! Surely the kindly stranger will help poor Cicero!" he cried trailing to a squeaking tone of desperation.
The Nord examined the protruding spoke and fallen wheel, "What can I do?"
The man pointed up the hill, "Go to the farm, the Lorius farm! Convince the farmer to help poor Cicero! He has the tools but he refuses to help us!" his tone turned to a deep growl in frustration.
Standing near the wagon, a yearning filled her.
The crate, seemed to whisper, radiating with an unresistable pull.
She stared at it for what seemed to be an eternity, listening close to the inaudible, hissing whispers filling her mind.
The jester broke her trance, "Surely you would earn Mother's favor. Cicero will of course reward you handsomely with, shiny clinky coin!" he chirped.
Missing the talk of coin she eyed the crate, "Your... Mother?"
Cicero explained his predicament, "Yes, Cicero is moving Mother to a new crypt, uh, she's quite dead you see. Her crypt was desecrated, we came all the way from Cyrodil when it became... unsafe." he rasped.
Saddened, she suspected that this slightly mad little man loved his mother above all, and any other family to speak of were busy dividing their coins while he was left to bury their mother alone.
So tragic, she thought to herself.
A clearly distraught and emotionally deranged son moving such a massive crate alone, no other kin or aid to speak of in sight.
The size of it alone suggested no expense was spared for the resting and care of his mother, a rare trait amongst people that one would spare such a luxury to the honored dead.
Most would have simply burnt her down to nothing.
She had seen so many deaths, and so many arguments, between those who proclaim to love one another, deciding ownership and sale of their kin's property, rather than mourning and honoring the one that was lost.
Cast aside the dead and divide the assets, is more the way of the general populous.
The Nord helped the man, of course, convincing the farmer on the hill to do the right thing, and loan his tools to Cicero for the repair.
The jester expressed his gratitude both verbally and with coins as he extended a satchel of gold, "Oh thank you thank you! Surely Mother won't forget your kindness!"
She attempted to decline any coin waving it away, "Just, get your Mother home."
Insistently, he held out a fist clenched and nodded hard gesturing her the satchel.
Again, she would seek a retreat in humble declination, "No, really that's not-"
He would not however, be refused.
Stepping in close the ginger jester swiftly slid the generously sized coin purse pinched between two black leathered fingers into her pocket.
His yellow eyes and the scent of sweet nightshade sent a shiver of heat down her center as he tugged lightly on the fabric grinning widely, and a dusting of pink radiated cross her cheeks.
She shook his charm turning under her hood, and instead focused on how she admired his loyalty.
For his loyalty, Cicero too...
Would earn her favor in return.