It was another cold day in the Pale, as was customary to the frigid environment that embraced the white highlands. The sun had set, and the chill of the night bit through all in its wake as the winds collided with the unstable wooden abodes in the town nearby. To an outsider, it would seem like an ordinary night in Skyrim, but that was because it was, to most people.

Along the beaten path, a figure rode upon a gray horse, concealed in a black hood and cloak trimmed with gold. Within this figure's arms rested an infant, swathed in a black wolf pelt for warmth. The figure, clearly trying to remain obscured, headed South of Dawnstar, avoiding eye contact with any and all who would gander.

Eventually, the figure came upon a wooden building at the base of a mountain. Knowing that people were within at the time, judging by the sounds of many a voice, the figure slowly lowered the child to the wooden floor, and gave them a gentle kiss on the forehead before the entrance door, and knocked on the bright oak. As soon as the sound of detection emerged from the side opposite to them, the hooded figure scrambled back to their horse and galloped away at top speed, leaving the child, and the shame behind.

When the door opened, a woman wearing a set of pine-green robes with an off-white hood stepped out, steel gauntlets and boots, and an Iron Mace on her hip. "Hello?" She asked, as she looked off into the night. Before she would write it off as a childish prank done by some child of the village, she heard a soft whimper beneath her feet. What the maiden saw surprised her, and shook her to her core.

A young child, left abandoned at their doorstep! Who could do such a heinous thing as leaving a child unattended in the frozen heights of the Pale? Never mind the threat of Wolves, Giants, Saber cats, and all manner of horrors, the cold in and of itself would bite with the ferocity of a Dragon.

If Dragons existed, that is.

The maiden quickly scooped the child into her arms and pressed them against herself, then quickly reentered the building, leaving the cold outside where it belonged.

A few other hooded figures in similar uniforms looked at the maiden as she carried the infant past the hearth and through the hall.

"Keeper Carcette!" the young woman cried out, as she rushed past the others who sat on benches nearby, examining the sight before them with a mix of bewilderment and curiosity.

Their leader was a Breton-a half-Elven woman with short, blonde hair, and an off-white uniform with a brown overcape, and steel gauntlets and boots, carrying a Steel Warhammer on her back. She turned around to face the flustered youth. "What is it? I'm in the middle of prayer. Can this wait?" She narrowed her eyes sternly, before noticing what the maiden held in her arms. "Vigilant, explain this." She commanded.

"I found this babe on our doorstep, Ma'am." the Vigilant said plainly.

"I see." Carcette responded. "Well, then. This will make things a tad more complicated, won't it?" She turned to look at the wall nearby, her back to the Vigilant holding the infant. After a moment in thought, the Keeper scratched her chin and turned around. "Perhaps the Honorhall Orphanage in Riften can take her." After all, they had heard nothing but good things about the wonderful caretaker, Grelod the Kind. Surely this infant would be fine enough in the woman's care.

"But... who will bring her there?" The Vigilant asked, her eyes filled with anxiety. It was true, that being located at the base of a mountain in a snowtorn wasteland surrounded by rough hills, Giants, Wolves, Saber Cats, and the like would make transportation of anything, let alone a child, very difficult.

"You will, of course!" Carcette tilted her head to the side in emphasis.

"With what carriage?" The Vigilant asked. "In this winter season, the 18th of Morningstar. Nobody could survive the bitter cold between here and Riften-let alone an infant!"

With these words, the Keeper looked up towards the ceiling, and closed her eyes in thought. With a deep breath, she turned back to her subordinate. "Very well. Leave the child in my chambers. I will examine her for wounds or signs of disease, and I will determine what we will do next with her."

"Very good, Ma'am." The Vigilant spoke, as she carried the baby to the large room on the East corner.

Carcette looked back to the shrine of Stendarr, and resumed in prayer to the God of Mercy. Though the Vigil prided themselves on their lack thereof, there were occasions where mercy was needed to be shown. "Stendarr says to be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy." It was as much a part of their way of life to Heal and Care for others as it was to slay Daedra and all who cavorted with them, though the Vigil seemed to have forgotten much of the former. The Keeper could not concentrate, nor could she meditate on her prayer, and so decided to head into her room.

The baby was laid on her bed, still swaddled in the wolf pelt. "What kind of person abandons a youngling?" The Keeper asked this as she gently approached the babe. The Breton woman gently leaned downwards, and took the child into her arms, and began to examine her for injury, removing the wolf pelt. All the child wore beneath was a small cloth wrapped around her bottom. "Ah, so you're a Breton!" The Keeper was mildly amused, and yet surprised. "Well met." The Baby opened her eyes, and began to look around-the bright emerald irises staring at the Keeper curiously.

"I'm Keeper Carcette." the Keeper addressed in a friendly manner. "You don't have a name, though, do you?" She clicked her tongue for a moment. "A shame, it is." The baby seemed weak, and tired, not emoting much, but instead was a tad feverish. She realized that the baby had a small infection on her right arm, presumably from a cut along her journey. "How did I miss that?" Carcette wondered. "I must be out of it today. May Stendarr's mercy purify you of your ills." As she spoke, a blue light illuminated around herself and the infant, curing her of the infection.

The baby sniffled lightly, and began to whimper.
"No, no, it's okay, it's okay, shhh." Carcette hugged the child closely, and stroked her back, to calm her down. "You're cured, it's okay. You're cured." That was when it hit her. "Cura."

"I'm going to call you 'Cura'. Is that all right with you, hmm?" She held the child up, and, looking at her face-to-face, the Keeper named the infant. The baby reached out for her, unsurprisingly, and she held her hand.

The Keeper cradled the child for a while, and gently carried her back into the main Hall.

She looked at the other Vigilants there, who stared at her blankly.

"Don't just stand there!" Carcette barked. "Bring me some Cabbage Soup! The poor thing needs something to eat!"

The Vigilant closest to it scrambled over to the cooking pot, and poured a small bowl, then went over and handed it to the Keeper. After feeding Cura, Carcette made a small bed next to her own, using some furs from their storage and a bale of hay. As the Night went deeper, the Keeper herself crashed in her own bed. She looked up at the ceiling as she lay down, staring with uncertainty, she wondered about Cura. Why was this child abandoned? Who were her parents? She could understand an Altmer and a Human not wanting to be public about their relationship, given the political climate of the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion currently. Especially if one of the parents was a Nord, which seemed the case.

Tamriel was a beautiful, and yet, harsh place indeed.

The Keeper slowly drifted off to sleep, when a voice called out to her.

"child..."
"...chosen by the gods..."
"teach...mercy, humility..."
"...Dragonborn."
"fate... Skyrim..."
"will... save..."
"The Last Dragonborn."

Visions of Dragons and fire filled her mind that night, most notably a black one devouring countless innocents. The whalebone bridge of Sovngarde was revealed before her, as well as Sheor's Hall. A gallant figure; a Breton with blonde hair and stark, green eyes, wearing the Apprentice Robes like those she would wear, as well as a brown Hood, wielding an Elven Mace and a strange, almost Dwarven Shield with an aura around it stood beside three ancient Nord warriors, and shouted a thundering blast towards her vision. When her eyes darted, she could see a masculine figure, appearing much like an old man with a goblet, pouring down water. Stuhn, or Stendarr, as she was familiar with, locked eyes with the Keeper.

And with that, Carcette snapped awake in her bed. She breathed heavily, drenched in sweat.
It was so much to take in, with little warning.

She turned to the baby beside her, who was sound asleep, and felt a wave of relief. Perhaps the dream and the arrival of this mysterious child were no mere coincidences. Perhaps there was something bigger at play at this time, the turning of the age. Perhaps she and the other vigilants would accept this child as one of their own, and raise her in the ways of the Order.

"Stendarr, God of Mercy... is this your doing?" She asked, clasping her hands together. "If I must raise this child... lead me in that endeavor. If the fate of Tamriel lies with her... she will need to be strong. Help me to raise her with a contrite heart, and a just mind. Let her know love and compassion, as well as ferocity and justice. "

She gently touched the infant's brow with her index finger. "Stendarr be with you, always."


A decade had passed since that night, and Cura was already learning how to fight with a Mace and a shield. She had been learning for the last few years, but slowly, and with supervised care.

"You're sloppy. If you arc it over your head, your opponent will stab you before your arm even meets its mark." A dark-skinned Vigilant with stern brows leaned against the wall in the courtyard.

"I'm trying, Isran!" Cura shouted, angrily.

"Brother Isran." the Redguard reminded her of their formality. "Try again." He crossed his arms, clearly unamused.

With a pout, the young Breton girl took a step backward, and then swung her arm diagonally, catching the training dummy in the head with a loud "clank!"

"Better." Isran noted. "But you still have a ways to go before we can pit you against any real opponent. For now, you're just a pathetic little pup."

"You're mean!" Cura accused. lowering her weapon arm in exasperation.

"I'm honest." Isran corrected. "And I've better things to do than work with a little Skeever who takes time for granted. We've no time. Get this right, or I will give up on you here and now."

Cura's blood went cold. She hated being underestimated. Something within her reviled at the thought of being seen as weak. She grimaced, and returned to the training dummy. "I'll take its head off! Just you watch!"

"Been doing that, and have yet to see it." Isran sneered.

"HNNNGRA!" Cura shouted as she threw her entire body forward and brought down her mace, missing her mark, but taking off the dummy's right arm, much to Isran's surprise.

"Hmph. Not bad," the Redguard said as he came in closer to examine the damages. "you're stronger than I thought, for a ten-year-old." He examined the place of impact, specifically, and poked one of the splinters on the wood. "A jagged edge left from a blunt strike. Not very clean, and off your mark, but a nice shot, all the same."

"See?" Cura placed her hand on her hip, and rested her iron mace on her shoulder. "I told you I was strong!"

"Unfortunately, strength is useless if you don't know what the hell you're doing." Isran turned to her, and furrowed his brows. "And you're very predictable. You'll probably get your skull cracked inwards on your first real fight." He got back up on his feet, and walked back to the wall. "You get one more shot at this. Don't mess it up!"

Cura grit her teeth in frustration, and reentered her battle stance, giving the mace a light twirl in her hand. "Then I'll make it count!"

As much as she hated to admit it, even if he agitated her more often than not, Cura held a deep respect for the stoic Vigilant Isran. He had been her teacher over the last year, since Vigilant Tolan had gone off to Falkreath. Isran had no tolerance for nonsense and incompetence, and was as stubborn as he was meticulous. No matter how headstrong she was, he was always a rung above her on that ladder. Isran was infamous for his disagreeable nature, and he butt heads with Keeper Carcette on many an occasion. She often had to pull rank to keep him subordinate. Perhaps his supervision of Cura's training was a punishment for his challenges.

Recently, Isran had become fascinated by an old fort East of Standarr's Beacon in the Rift. From what Cura had heard, it was in tatters.

"Attack!" Isran commanded.

"HRRRA!" Cura cried as she rushed the dummy, bringing her mace downwards, crushing both its helmet and its head, and carving down the middle, breaking it in half, leaving the Redguard stunned.

"Ysmir's beard!" Isran uncharacteristically exclaimed, profaning the Nordic Deity.

Cura was surprised, but she beamed proudly at his reaction as he rushed over to the decimated training dummy.

"What in Oblivion are you, child?" Isran asked, turning his face to her.

"A Breton." Cura stated matter-of-factly.

"Did you chug a Draught of Strength when I wasn't looking?" Isran asked firmly, as he went down on one knee to her level and gripped her shoulders.

"No, Sir." Cura said in a slightly anxious tone. Her shoulders tensed up under his firm grip.

Isran searched her eyes to see if she was lying when another Vigilant came outside. "Cura, Keeper Carcette is calling for you!"

The young Breton girl's emerald eyes lit up, and a smile came across her face. "Coming! Coming!"
She ran ahead, leaving Isran on one knee in the snow, and a hand on his head as he tried to figure out her unbelievable strength.

When she headed inside, a few vigilants waved to her and smiled. The young Breton enthusiatically smiled and waved back to them as she hurried down the hall.

Carcette was over by the shrine, as she always was, and she eyed a Daedra Heart on the platter before her. Cura pranced over happily, and embraced the Paladin's side. When Carcette felt her, she laid a gentle hand on Cura's head.

"You wanted to see me, Keeper?" Cura asked, her eyes lit with wonder and innocent joy.

"I did!" Carcette replied, as she moved to the side. "Feast your eyes upon it, Cura; the Heart of a Daedra." She puffed up proudly at the mention of her new trophy, as if she were talking about a Mounted Spriggan.

"Wow!" Cura came closer to examine it. "That's amazing! How did you get it?"

"I have slain a Dremora." Carcette bragged. "A Necromancer summoned it outside of Nightcaller Temple, but I managed to slay them, and their Dremora. I'm keeping this heart as a trophy, and as a reminder."

"A reminder?" Cura asked.

"Yes-a reminder that one must be careful when battling Daedra."

A couple of vigilants came inside, with a shovel and some blessed salts. One hung his head sorrowfully, and the one beside him stepped forward, and took down his hood. "Vigilants Hjal and Hormir are no longer with us." he proclaimed sadly.

Cura's eyes widened. She knew all too well what this meant. "Keeper Carcette... did they die fighting the Dremora?" She turned to her maternal figure for an answer, looking for a little bit of comfort.

"Yes, unfortunately..." Carcette said with a sigh. "This life is a dangerous one, little one." She lowered herself down to Cura's level and placed her hands on her shoulders.

"Isran says I'm not a good fighter. That I'll be killed easily." Cura looked to the floor, disheartened. "That my skull would be cracked inwards in my first fight."

"Isran is just trying to push you harder, Cura. He has his... ways of dealing with people, and can be a little extreme at times, or even just insulting and biting, but he means well." The Keeper shrugged. "Take his criticisms as an opportunity to learn and grow."

"Can you teach me a bit more about Restoration?" Cura asked, her eyes gleaming with a desire to improve at least in one way this day.

"I'll gladly share my knowledge with you!" Carcette exclaimed, almost excitedly that Cura posed the question.

Cura squealed excitedly, when Carcette explained how one could channel their inner magicka and convert it to a life-giving source. The young one had a basic knowledge about Healing, and knew how to produce a Lesser Ward. Carcette helped her slightly refine her technique, and she improved her Healing slightly. After the lesson was over, Cura walked over to the Shrine of Stendarr. Cura went on one knee, and held her arms up high, and bowed her head. "Blessed be the name of Stendarr, the God of Mercy. He calls us by day to train with sword and shield to strengthen our might; and by night to pray in his name to strengthen our souls. He takes pity upon us, his humble servants, and grants unto us mercy. His holy light of truth will cast out the forces of darkness and rain justice upon the Daedric abominations. Glory shall be his, forever."

With the Prayer of the Resolute concluded, Cura got back up on her feet. "Thanks for the Lesson, Keeper."

"Always, Cura." Carcette responded with a smile.

Cura nodded, and turned to Brother Adalvald for her History lesson. As Carcette watched Cura leave, she recalled the prophecy she was shown. She and the other Vigilants were doing their best by Cura, but could they really prepare her for the future? Was time running short? Every day, Carcette would look for signs concerning Dragons and their return, but it all proved fruitless. Perhaps she was worrying over nothing.

Perhaps Cura wasn't the chosen one at all. Perhaps it was only a fever dream that caused Carcette to keep the child there.
After all, Cura was soft; cute, untamed. As much as they tried to discipline her in the ways of battle, she was a slow learner. How could she face a Horker, let alone a Dragon? Carcette walked back to her table, where she noticed the wolf pelt next to the Shrine.

Cura's wolf pelt.

The Keeper had kept it all these years, and it brought a light smile to her face.

She saw, in the distance, Cura making the other Vigilants smile and laugh as they drank their Ale by the hearthfire. Adalvald, as serious as he was, had taken a liking to the young Breton, treating her almost like a Niece as he taught her a Brief History of the Empire, and of the Physicalities of Werewolves. Cura had a thirst for knowledge, and a friendly spirit. She st on his lap to get a closer look at the book in the glow of the firelight.

Even if Cura did not turn out to be the Hero of Legend, she was still a wonderful addition to the Vigil.