Hello everybody! Hope this finds you well. This is the first story I've ever put out in a public domain so I'm curious to see how much interest it generates. I've been writing this for a few years, alongside others, but never did anything with it. Hence why the entire thing was released in the space of a few days. I just made quick checks for spelling/grammatical mistakes then oploaded it. So here we go, got to try everything once, right?
Also, seeing as how I'm Scottish I always imagine Tulvar to speak with a Scottish accent. You know, in case it helps you with immersion or whatever. A nice accent like Billy Connelly or Ewan McGregor. Would hate Brynjolf to be the only Nord with a Scottish accent after all.
Anyway, looking forward to hearing from you and wish you all the best! Until next time.
Skyrim: Dawnguard
4th Era: 201
On a clear day the sun always hit the city of Whiterun just right. I sat on a bench in the middle of the city, the revered Gildergreen Tree behind me and the Hall of the Companions, Jorrvaskr, at the top of the steps in front of me. I let the warmth of the sun's rays wash over me and lost myself in the peace that they brought me. I loved the sun. To me it represented everything that was great in the world of Tamriel: Life, love, prosperity, happiness. The sun's light brought colour to an otherwise brown and grey landscape. Looking up at Dragonsreach Keep, sitting high and looking over the rest of the city on its hilltop, it never failed to impress me.
On days like that I could also look beyond the walls of the city up towards the summit of the Throat of the World, the highest mountain in all of Tamriel, never mind Skyrim alone. A few hundred metres below the very top of the mountain and on the side facing Whiterun I could just make out the monastery known as High Hrothgar, wherein dwelt the Greybeards. They were a strange and reclusive group, no bigger than four of them I had heard, who practised what was called "The Way of the Voice". It was said that they could harness the power of their voices and focus them into a shout of deadly power like the dragons of legend. No one could vouch for this claim, however, as no dragons had been seen on the continent for thousands of years since the end of the Dragon War during the Mythic Era.
I could sit all day and bask in its glory, if work allowed for it. I was supposed to be taking a delivery from Warmaiden's, one of the blacksmiths in the city, up to Dragonsreach where the Jarl and his council resided. Though I worked at the smithy, I was simply an errand boy and tended to the customers that came into the shop. The weapons and armour made by Ulfberth and his wife Adrianne were among the highest quality gear made in the entire Hold of Whiterun, beaten only by the steel of the legendary Eorlund Graymane. Warmaiden's, however, had the added benefit of seeing lots of business with the Jarl and his court seeing as Adrianne's Father, Proventus, was Steward to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.
It was to Proventus that the delivery was bound, but I had decided that I would allow myself just a few minutes to sit and feel the warm glow of the sun on my skin. It was a feeling that I cherished and never took for granted, for when night came it was quite a different story. When night fell and the city went to sleep, I was never at peace, always haunted by an unseen shadow and I would frequently awaken from my sleep covered in a sheen of sweat that seemed to turn to ice on my skin, leaving me shaking and gasping for breath. Unfortunately, I was all too used to these night terrors and had accepted long ago that they would never stop.
"When did you start having these nightmares?" I had once been asked by Ulfberth. My home, called Breezehome, was right next to Warmaiden's where Ulfberth and Adrianne both lived on the upper floor above the shop. On a particularly bad night they had both heard me screaming and felt so bad that they had offered to give me the day off, which I politely refused. I had not given Ulfberth a straight answer, not because I did not trust or respect my employers, but because I had sworn to myself that I could never talk about it to anyone. The pain that swept over me any time I returned to that fateful night was just too acute to the point of crippling. The only people I had nearly told were my friends Idolaf and Jon Battleborn. The two men were brothers, Idolaf being the eldest, and during a beer-soaked evening in the Bannered Mare Inn they had almost convinced me to divulge the story. Instead, I immediately stopped talking, downed what was left of my pint and left what been an otherwise great night in a detestable mood.
Night of Terror – 4th Era: 190
I was born in the Year 181 of the 4th Era to Haema and Hroldir. Of my mother, Haema, there was nothing to say. She had died on the day I was born and left my father alone with me. According to my Father, she lived only long enough to give me the name Tulvar, after a great leader of the Companions at one point in history. Regrettably, I never got a chance to know her, but I was told many a time that Haema had been passionate yet shy, holding within her a great love for that which interested her: Literature, poetry, birds and helping the priests at the Temple of Kynareth care for the Gildergreen which was so beloved by the followers of the Goddess. She had not been one for travelling far. Born in the town of Riverwood to the South of the city of Whiterun and raised there for her first few years. Then, her family moved to Whiterun where, in her teens, she had bumped into a brave, strapping, adventuring funny-man by the name of Hroldir, my father.
Despite my father's sorrow from his wife's passing, he only became more determined to give me the best life that he could conceive. We were never a family of wealth, Breezehome being a quaint dwelling, but our life together was rich in other ways. Hroldir had always been firm in my upbringing, but never shied away from giving me praise and showing his love and affection for me when it was called for. I knew very well when I had done something bad and when I had done well by him. Our father-son bond was stronger than any other that I knew of.
As I grew in years and strength, he started taking me on little adventures of our own, like he had before settling down in Whiterun with Haema. They started off small, barely a few hundred metres from the gates of Whiterun and lasting maybe only a couple of days at maximum. Father started teaching me survival skills; how to build a shelter, cook, collect and store water, track prey and what plants were safe to eat. In addition, he had me learning archery as soon as I was able, on top of my first lessons in wielding a blade like every good Nord child.
As I grew older, Father and I ventured further afield and I began to see more of the country that I had grown up in: The green, vibrant forests of the Rift and Falkreath that were teeming with wildlife and provided much opportunity to practice my developing skills. Then there were the deep canyons and high, rocky plateaus of the Reach, dotted with ancient Dwemer structures that I quickly became fascinated with. When I pleaded with my father to take me inside one of the old, abandoned Dwemer cities he was fast to tell me of the dangers that could await within. There were the Dwemer-built automatons that still patrolled the cities long after their masters had disappeared from the face of Mundus. If it was not the Dwemer creations then it was the twisted Falmer that infested the underground world of Skyrim.
Hroldir was equally unhappy with the idea of us poking around the many, many ancient Nordic ruins that were present all over Skyrim. I knew the stories of the Draugr that stalked the halls of these expansive crypts, decomposed bodies of warriors from Mythic times that had served the Dragons during the Dragon War and were cursed to eternal suffering once their winged overlords had been cast down. What intrigued me the most were the tales of strange "word walls" that spoke to only select individuals, but in the language of the Dragons themselves.
Being the young boy that I was, however, this only made me more eager to delve inside and uncover every mystery for myself. We never quite made it to the Northern sectors of the land where the bitter-cold winds that came inland from the Sea of Ghosts never subsided and kept the land in an almost permanent state of Winter. Father deemed those conditions too extreme for me, at least until I was ten, he said. Other than all the skills that I was acquiring during our adventures, what I was really gaining from the experiences was a deep love for the land in which I lived. Skyrim was so full of unexplained wonders that no one had managed to uncover and in my ambitious young mind I decided that I was going to be the first one to discover everything that our country was hiding. I cursed the relatively short lifespan of Humans, when compared to Elves at least, as I knew it would take a whole life-time or more to travel to every corner of Skyrim and find everything there was to find. I would just have to start early!
However, fate can be cruel and cares little for the hopes and dreams of a child. I was 9 years old, not a month before my 10th birthday, when my Father told me that we were going to the South of the Rift, where the forest met the mountains that separated Skyrim from Cyrodiil. There we were going to live rough for a couple of weeks, the longest adventure we had ever had and I had never been more excited in my life. When we were clear of the gates of Whiterun my Father could barely keep up with me as I sped along the road. Along the way we made night stops at the villages of Darkwater Crossing and Shor's Stone before finally arriving in the city of Riften where we stayed a final night and stocked up on some supplies before heading off the beaten path into the wilderness where we deliberately searched for the most obscure spot to set out first camp.
For days we roamed the wilds, hunted and foraged for food. We made a game of making it to the river and collecting water without being seen by anyone as we crossed the road that went from Riften around the Southern side of the Throat of the World to the town of Helgen. Father showed me how to build traps for animals and the basics of camouflage. When the sun disappeared behind the mountains to the West and darkness descended with its traditional swiftness, we would build our fire and hunker down for the night. Father would tell me of his adventures that he had when he was younger and had not yet met my mother.
He had been born in Solitude to a mother and Father who were travelling merchants. They frequently travelled to High Rock and Cyrodiil to sell their textiles and as their success grew so did the distance that they would cover. He told me of the endless dunes of the Alik'r Desert that covered much of the realm of Hammerfell. He spoke of the feline Khajit and their distant homeland of Elsweyr. Up to that point I had never seen one of the cat people and struggled to believe him, so it was even harder to take him seriously when he began telling me of the reptilian Argonians from Blackmarsh. Hroldir spoke little of the Elvish races, perhaps because of left-over bitterness from the Great War which finished back in Year 175 after having raged between the Empire and the High Elf-led Aldmeri Dominion for 4 long, bloody years. He had not fought in it, being far too young, but the relations between Human-kind and the High Elves, or Altmer, were sour to say the least.
I acquired so much knowledge on the journeys that my father and I undertook and that adventure to the Rift was shaping up to be the best yet. We had been living like wild men for over a week and my father was overcome with joy at how happy I seemed to be living in the great outdoors and how quickly I took to it. I wanted him to take me to all the places that he had been to, to see all of Tamriel together. He had placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, looked in my eyes with pride and said "I promise".
That very night, fate decided to take me down another, far darker path.
It began when a queer silence fell over our camp. Our fire was still crackling away and both my father and I were both on the verge of sleep. We were used to the sounds of rustling and the snapping of twigs as animals went about their business. The fire was usually enough to ward off animals that grew too curious and could have presented a threat to us. This predator, however, was not so easily put off. Father and I became aware of the unnatural silence at the same time and barely managed to throw each other a worried glance before a shape leapt into our camp from the shadows. Father was on his feet faster than I had ever seen anyone move and with his blade he slashed away at our attacker. No sooner had Father taken his first swing than the shape vanished into the darkness once again. I took up my own blade, for all the good it would do me, and stood at my father's back.
"Whatever happens Son, let me fight them. And if I can't… you run!"
"Father!" I was about to protest.
"You. Run," he growled at me. We both strained our ears for any sounds of our assailant, but neither of us heard a thing. Then there was a flash of movement from beyond the light of our fire and a cold hand grabbed my neck and tried to snatch me away before my father could react. I cried out in surprise and fortunately my father was able to spin round and catch hold of my ankle just before I disappeared in the arms of our foe.
I felt like I was being torn in two as the attacker tried to drag me one way and my father tried to pull me back. Hroldir threw a rather wild slash with his sword in my direction and, barely missing me by centimetres. No blood was drawn from me, but I heard a hiss and a shriek from my attacker and the cold hand rapidly withdrew. I tried to catch a glimpse of the enemy and though I could definitely make out the shape of a humanoid figure, the only distinctive features I saw were a pair of eyes a shade of red that I had never seen before in the natural world. They glowed a putrid colour of blood-red and were fuelled by an insatiable hunger. In that moment I felt a terror like I had never felt before. Blood turned to ice in my veins and despite every fibre in my body telling me to scream in horror, I was frozen in place by fear.
Every muscle seized up and although I heard my father yelling at me to stand up, I did nothing but lie on the floor and cower. Father tried to pick me up off of the ground but I rose up too slowly, giving the enemy time to whip around and launch another attack from behind my father. My father shouted in surprise as the weight of the strange man landed on top of him and forced him to the ground, repeatedly clawing at the back of his head. The blood-red eyes seemed to have lit on fire since I saw them mere seconds before. Seeing my beloved father come under such savage attack finally gave me some courage and I grasped for my short sword and attempted to strike the enemy. He simply dodged aside and with a clenched fist he smacked me right in the chest and sent me flying back into our shelter, smashing it to pieces and the debris collapsing on top of me in a heap.
I could not move. My legs were trapped under the remains of our shelter and I could not move my left arm without excruciating pain ripping through my body. Outside I could hear the struggle between my father and the attacker continue. By distracting the enemy for a second my father had been able to get himself out from being pinned on the ground and the two men were fighting with everything that they had. I struggled as best I could to get loose and shouted for my father. The tears streaming from my eyes were born both from the agony that I was in and the fear that I felt for my father's life. He had given me everything he had and now I felt that I had had the chance to prove myself to him, only to fail and possibly cost us both our lives. The hellish encounter continued to go on until I heard the thud of heavy bodies hitting the ground. There were fierce words exchanged. I heard scrapes and "thwacks" as the men struck out at each other. The "swoosh" of a blade scything through the air was audible. A deadly battle was taking place and I could only lie there helpless as my father fought for both of our lives alone.
Then it happened. I heard metal pierce flesh, the noise of bones crunching and one of the men was gasping desperately as the sword was embedded further and further into their body. Seconds later there was a scream of rage and I heard the awful sound of skin and muscle being ripped apart by something else. Claws? Teeth? My mind was spinning as I tried not to think the worst, but when complete silence fell on the camp once again, I was left only with more questions. I was dying to see what had become of the fight. I wanted so much for my father to get to his feet, to come over to where I was trapped and pull me out, hug me as he made sure I was safe and told me that he was alright. I whimpered my father's name, begging for him to answer me. No answer came. I cried again and again, fought the best I could to break free from my wooden prison. It was all for naught. When I was eventually drained of all energy and felt my eyes become increasingly heavy, I could just see our fire begin to fade away, the last embers burning out and as all light faded from the world I fell into darkness.
I stirred as a shiver ran through my body and I tried to lift my head, my face covered in dirt. The world seemed like it was spinning around me as I attempted once again to squirm my way out of the debris that lay on top of me. In the process I knocked my limp left arm and let out an involuntary scream as the pain fired through my nervous system. When I could breathe again, I called out for Hroldir, weakly at first but I upped the volume with every attempt to get my father's attention. Then I heard movement outside and my heart skipped a beat as I felt hope return to me as I imagined Father scrambling over to the collapsed shelter and freeing me. Oddly, however, I heard voices accompanying the footsteps and it became clear to me that there were actually several people approaching. Unsure of what to make of this I grew quiet and waited until they got closer to decide if they were here to help, or were yet another threat.
"I'm sure it came from over here," I heard a man say, his voice slightly muffled as he crunched his way through the leaves that littered the ground.
"You're sure you heard screaming? What were they saying?" Another said.
"Don't know, but the voice sounded young. A child maybe."
"Well… if there's someone out here, we'll search for another few minutes before we get back on patrol. We're already behind schedule."
Patrol? Were they guards from Riften keeping an eye on the countryside? I almost yelled out for help but my desire was over-ridden by caution. They could easily be bandits or vagabonds looking for an easy score.
"Captain!" a man suddenly shouted aloud, "I see a camp just up the hill."
I heard the sounds of at least four or five men rushing up the hill towards our ruined camp and when they reached what I judged to be the edge they all stopped very suddenly.
"Shor's Bones! What happened here?"
"Check the bodies, see what we can find out."
Bodies? I did not like the sound of that and the chill that I had felt earlier returned with renewed vigour.
"By the Gods," one man exclaimed in shock, "this one's a vampire! Looks like a blade through the gut did him in. Check the other one."
My fist clenched at the mention of the word "vampire". Father had told me about them and described them as some of the most vicious, despicable creatures to walk the face of Mundus. Night stalkers that slaughtered their prey and drank their blood to satisfy their intense hunger. I saw those bright, red eyes in my mind again. That memory had imprinted itself in my mind and the rage I felt in that moment was unlike anything I had ever experienced.
The men outside continued to examine the bodies of the vampire and my father, whom I now knew had been killed, murdered, by the foul monster. From what I heard, the men guessed that my father had managed to plunge his sword through the gut of the vampire as it leapt on top of him, but in his death throes the vampire had ripped and shredded my father's neck and chest with its claw-like nails. I could listen to them describing the grizzly scene no longer and began screaming out loud in an explosive anger, thumping at the logs that had me pinned down. The men must have jumped up at this new sound, but they were quick to rush over and start removing the debris. As the world outside was revealed to me once again I made sure I got a look at my potential saviours quickly, so that I could decide whether to thank them or try to run as fast as possible. However, I saw straight away the signature scale-mail hauberks and purple-coloured sashes that went across their chests and around the waist. On each of the shields that I saw discarded behind them was the crossed-daggers insignia of Riften. These were guards out on a routine patrol, just as I had hoped.
"By the Gods, what happened to you boy?"
I did not answer. Now that I was getting free, I had lost all ability to speak, so it seemed. Though I still managed to yelp like a helpless puppy when they tried to move my left arm and they instantly knew that it was broken and took extra care from then on. The men were professional and full of compassion. They were constantly saying things like "it's all going to be alright", "you'll be fine" and "no one can hurt you now". All of their platitudes fell on deaf ears as all my attention was focused on my father as he lay on the ground. For the first time I saw the damage that the vampire had wrought on him; his face and throat had been slashed to pieces and I could even see strips of flesh still embedded under the nails of the vampire. The ground around my father's head was soaked with his blood and his eyes were still open, cold and grey. Dead.
I struggled to my feet and staggered forward. Not towards the pair of bodies but to where my pathetic child-sized sword lay abandoned on the ground. As the Riften soldiers looked on in curiosity I scooped up the blade and headed straight for the vampire's corpse and began beating the body with every fibre of strength that I could muster. I hacked and slashed at the beast's body, yelling at the top of my voice until it completely broke and the only sounds that came out of my mouth were hoarse, raw screams. I plunged the blade through the vampire's face and twisted my sword around and around. I felt the men watching me and when one stepped forward to try and calm me one of his comrades stopped him and I heard him mutter,
"Let him. It'll help him to let it all out now."
I continued to take out my anguish, pain and grief on my father's killer for another few minutes until I was utterly spent once again, nearly collapsing on the ground before the captain caught me.
"This is your father?" he asked. I nodded, the tears running down my cheeks and dripping off of my chin. One of the guards took off his purple, wool sash and put it around me to keep me warm while the others prepared to move my father's body. They took me back to Riften where the priests at the Temple of Mara attended to my injuries and made a brace for my broken arm. As for my Father, they blessed his soul and prayed for him to reach the sacred realm of Sovngarde, where all worthy Nords ended up when their existence in the mortal realm ceased. I wanted to imagine Father walking up to the towering Hall of Heroes where all the legends of Skyrim lived in eternal celebration and being welcomed as a brother by all his fellow Nords. I hoped, one day, that we would be reunited.
For now, however, I had to continue living in the world of mortals where there was no eternal glory or companionship. Only death and pain. After the horrific event that took my Father, the man who meant everything to me, I had only one purpose: To rid the world of Vampires.
