AN: I got impatient and not to mention trying to figure out how to continue writing the 'Ashen Souls' story without getting irritated and restarting the chapter... that has happened 4 times now, so I can only apologise. I will continue writing Ashen Souls and Path of the Dragonborn when time allows of course (and maybe when I stop tearing my hair out at how bad I am at updating, so again, sorry!)
Thanks to everyone who sends messages, reviews or even reads a little of my stories, it does mean so much to me :)
So here is the newest story of Morgan Aurelius, but with a little twist..read on to find out what I mean ;)
4E 607, Dawnstar, Skyrim
"Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart.
I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonbor...AGH!"
Darvasa Ulenas looked up sharply as the unfortunate bard received a tankard to the face, still half full of strong Nordic ale. She winced as she noted the broken nose and the torrent of blood that flowed from the bard's nostrils, and only looked back at her papers when the tavern owner helped the bard away from the room with the jeers of the local Nords issuing from every direction.
Barbarians.
Glancing back at her notes again, she twirled her quill around her fingers as she tried to make sense of what was in front of her. Nearly twenty years of research lay on the table in front of her, most of it her own. There were the tattered notes left from ancient warriors known as the 'Stormcloaks', men and women of Skyrim that had fought for their independence against the tyrannical Empire.
At least, that was what the notes claimed.
There were the scattered sightings of a mysterious figure dressed in black and red armour, all of them ranging from a few years to several centuries old. The one thing they all had in common was the description of the figure.
Darvasa looked at the artist's drawing and she couldn't help but smile a little.
The Dragonborn herself, smiling and completely at ease, wearing a long dress that pooled around her feet and clung to her hips and body like a second skin. Long hair, delicate facial features and of course, the set of fangs that could easily be seen with a sensuous mouth.
The drawing had been found in the ruins of Whiterun of all places, a ruin that had been a bandit stronghold for many years now. Darvasa had already published many papers about the ancient city, most of them rejected by the other scholars of her generation as the 'flights of fancy' and other, more insulting remarks. Yet she knew she was correct in her findings as she had been the one to infiltrate the bandit city and find the drawing, along with other interesting objects.
Such as the small dagger that was attached to her hip.
It was nothing special by any means. At first glance, it seemed to be a regular steel dagger with a smooth wooden pommel and a blade that was barely sharp enough to cut bread. But if anyone were to look closer, they would see the initials carved into the pommel.
R.A
No-one knew what had happened to Runa Aurelius, one of the adopted daughters of the Dragonborn, but Darvasa knew that this dagger was the one that had killed an Emperor only a mere sixty years ago, the dagger being found embedded within the corpse on a night where the dragons had seemed to vanish from every continent in Tamriel.
Darvasa then glanced around to see if any of her fellow companions had noticed the bard's song being cut short.
"Yeah! That shut the bitch up! Let's have a PROPER song. A song for the Nords!" Frodar the Fearless roared as he stood up, his massive seven feet three-inch frame dwarfing every other person in the tavern.
There had been much speculation about how such a monster of a man had been created. Darvasa liked to think that he had been birthed by a mammoth and a giant. But he was rather smarter than many warriors, showing an aptitude for a cautious approach when it came to a fight.
Most of the time at least.
The two Argonians were sitting across from her, their eyes narrowed in wariness as they looked back at her. Darvasa couldn't blame them. Dawnstar was a Nord village at heart and not many of the other races stayed here long for fear of being ostracised. Or worse. Alaxate and Amusei were husband and wife respectively, and had been extremely eager to join this little venture.
Of course, they were tomb robbers and expert thieves, but Darvasa preferred their company over most of the others. Speaking of which...
Yes, there they were. Eduard and Karina Marelus of Bruma, Cyrodiil. The major monetary backers of the expedition, they had agreed only after being promised the land where the Dragonborn's home was said to be. The Jarl of Dawnstar had accepted the gold of course, and the Imperials were eager to set off by the looks of things, both of them glaring at Darvasa with identical impatient expressions.
"Have you figured it out yet?"
Darvasa smiled slightly as the tall altmer sat down next to her, passing her a mug of weak ale. Larorian was an enigma to everyone, yet there was no doubt he was the strongest when it came to magical expertise. But she had to admit he was too good at deflecting questions about his past life, always answering a question with a question. Darvasa flushed when he raised his eyebrow before glancing at the map laid out before her.
"I have narrowed it down but none of these maps have any markers showing a building anywhere near. The only ruin close is what used to be some farm of some kind," she explained, a slender finger pointing to the area indicated.
Larorian smiled.
"I believe you are correct. Remember, it has been over four hundred years since the house was constructed and while the Dragonborn had immense power, I doubt even she could move a house and every item within, even with a dragon helping her."
Darvasa nodded. Four hundred and six years ago, the Dragonborn had defeated a demigod in combat. The World Eater, Alduin. Firstborn of Akatosh and the first ever dragon created by the god of Time. She had defeated an ancient and powerful vampire lord soon afterwards, only to be turned into one of the undead by a vampire that seemed to defy any known magical logic when it came to her prowess at necromancy.
Morgan Aurelius had then fought against another Dragonborn, and the island of Solstheim had fallen into the sea. Only a sixth of the island remained, and every inch of it was littered with ash and bones. It was a dead place now, long since forgotten by the rest of the world.
As if sensing her train of thought, another set of voices joined the conversation.
"Heh, would had loved to have seen that. An entire fucking island!"
Angeline Adeleis was a Breton battlemage of unimaginable power, one of only three in four hundred years that had beaten the records set by the Dragonborn when it came to use of fire magic. At twenty years old, she was young, but having already been though a war at the age of sixteen and surviving, none questioned her ability.
"Yeah, right up to the moment when you sank into the waves and were crushed under immense water pressure," Bargrug the Wise muttered as he drained his tankard, his tusks turning into a grin.
Bargrug was almost as tall as Frodar, and yet, for an orc, he was rather quiet and only spoke when he felt he needed to. Seeing Angeline flush with slight embarrassment, the old orc chuckled and thumped the battlemage on the back.
"Ah, don't let my words hurt you, I am just an old orc after all."
"And yet, words can hurt in more than one way."
Darvasa shuddered as Khajiit joined in. Everything about Dro'Barri screamed 'insane', not to mention 'dangerous'. From his all black attire to the two ebony daggers strapped to his thighs, the young man was a capable and dangerous fighter.
And the one who sneaked into the Imperial Palace just to have a quick shag with the previous Empress.
Darvasa had heard about how the Empress had been hung the day afterwards at the order of the current Emperor, Janus III, and there had been talk that Dro'Barri had been the one to leak the information out into the public in the first place.
"Isn't that correct, Lady Darvasa?" he purred with a smile.
Darvasa smiled back at him.
"The thu'um, yes. I know what you speak of. Of course, there are no know practitioners of the ancient Nord art any longer, not since the destruction of the Greybeard Temple ninety years ago," she lectured, noting how a few of the Nords in the tavern were now listening in.
"But it could be learned by anyone, yes?"
Ahtar was a huge Redguard yet was dwarfed by the orc and the Nord that were now sitting at the table, but his one remaining eye was fixed on hers with a steady gaze. She never asked how his other eye had ended up like the way it was, but the four scratch marks that cut onto his face matched those of a human.
Or rather, a human with claws. A vampire.
"Of course. But it would take years to learn even a single Word of Power through the constant meditative techniques required to understand the dragon language. For someone as educated as Angeline for example, it might take her a decade to unlock the meaning. And then you would have to learn how to project the energy needed to form a Word into a thu'um," she explained, sipping from the ale and sighing as three Nords all bellowed at the same time:
"Ulfric learned them in less time!"
"Ulfric Stormcloak was an extremely intelligent person," Darvasa replied "And yet he also had difficulty learning the Words of Unrelenting Force until he realised that emotions also come into play when it comes to using the thu'um."
"Anger."
Darvasa nodded to the small bosmer male that sat next to her. Ligorn was another who she knew nothing about, yet she noted he always scanned every room he went into for threats, for as long as he was in that room. She didn't know why he was so paranoid yet she never asked him as to why. The small grin her gave her didn't help either.
He is so cute.
"Yes. Anger is an emotion that Ulfric used to gain his mastery of Unrelenting Force..."
She paused as the cheers continued for some time.
"And yet, compared to a dragon or a Dragonborn, Ulfric's thu'um was considered to be weak. He had even admitted it a few days before the Battle of Windhelm, where he would ultimately lose his life on the field."
Darvasa found the parchment she needed and cleared her throat.
"I remember the first time I used that Shout on a dragon. It was that big red bastard as well. I used all three Words. The same Words I used to defeat the brave King Torygg in single combat. The bloody lizard laughed at me! I don't think I even dented his scales. He said 'it was strong for a mortal', cheeky bastard. But I think was right, Galmar. I should use the Power for other mortals and leave the dragon killing to our spears and axes. Now, let us feast and cleave that bitch's head off in the morning!"
"That was written by Jarl Ulfric's steward, signed and dated," Darvasa clarified as she showed the ancient parchment, the date easily seen despite the tattered fibres.
"That bitch cheated though, it wasn't a fair fight," one Nord muttered.
"Pah! He should have had archers fire a thousand arrows into the Imperial dogs, even a fucking vampire cannot avoid that!" another yelled.
Darvasa nodded to the others, and as the fight started to break out in the tavern, the party of twelve made themselves scarce in the mayhem, only speaking when they had left Dawnstar entirely.
"Had to open your gob about the fucking Dragonborn didn't you," Frodar muttered.
"In case you didn't notice, it's because of ME that you are even here," Darvasa retorted as she started walking, the others following close behind. "It was MY research that got us here. MY travelling across Tamriel to find each of you for help, advice and gold, and it is because of ME that we are close to finding the whereabouts of the most feared warrior since Tiber Septim, so just shut the fuck up and help me find this fucking house!"
There were a few moments of quiet before the massive Nord chuckled, the orc and the rest following soon afterwards.
"You know, for a dunmer, you have one hell of a bad mouth," he wheezed.
Darvasa frowned and couldn't help but giggle soon afterwards. She patted the bulging biceps on the Nord and continued walking south to their destination.
Heljarchen Hall, here we come!
Inside the tavern, the brawl had subsided and the patrons were once again back to drinking, gambling and arguing as normal. The bard and tavern owner standing at the bar had seen the expedition party leave and both agreed on the same thing.
It would be better to not tell anyone else where they had gone. Hundreds had gone missing over the years in the search for the Dragonborn's home and both of them had the same uncomfortable feeling in their guts when the name 'Dragonborn' ever came up in conversation.
The bard had explained she had started that song as a paying patron had asked for it.
And yet, when the two of them looked over to the darkest area of the tavern, the two figures that had been sitting there the entire night were nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the only way they would know that someone had sat there was a half-drank bottle of strong Summerset vintage, three hundred years old.
The next morning, the bard and tavern owner would be found dead in their beds, bodies drained of blood and a nightshade left inside their open mouths.