Bjørn Fireshield stood, tears streaming and horrified, watching his mortally wounded father. He tried to focus on what he was saying, but his mind thrust itself into what had happened a mere four hours ago. His father, Hisveld, and his mother, Sigralith, were highly skilled warriors and had frequently been employed by the empire. They were supposed to retire after more than fifty years of fighting, but they wanted one last job. They had stumbled upon a large force of bandits that could have even attacked the capital. When Bjørn had gathered the imperial legions, his father had led the charge, while his mother helped coordinate the archers. They had wiped the bandits... but his mother was killed. There wasn't even time to say any final words... and then his father was stabbed through the torso. Now, here his father lay, bandaged, slowly dying, and trying to give some last advice. Bjørn, and his friends Do'Khar, and Ji'ara, had seen it all, and they were there, standing just behind him. The healer, a Breton man whom his father had known for years, was standing there, trying to keep the pain as low as possible and let his friend's life end peacefully.

"I don't have much time left, son, so I need you to know this." Bjørn's mind snapped back. "I need you to go to our ancestral home, in Skyrim. I and your mother had always wanted to protect you, but now I see that I can't protect you any lon—" he started coughing in a short fit. "You have greatness ahead of you. I only hope that I have trained you well enough to face it." He breathed, deeply and wheezing, trying to fight. "When you look for a dragon, look in the lake—" his words were punctuated by short breaths. "Goodbye, my son. I will see your mother in Sovengarde..." His eyes closed, and he fell limp on the bed.

"Dad?" Bjørn asked, eyes wide. "Dad please! Dad!" He began to sob as he held his father's hand,looked at his peaceful face, the grey beard surrounding his father's smile. "No!" He said, a half whisper, half sob. Resting his head against the bed, he wept.

"No..." Do'Khar said, the pain in his voice evident. He heard Ji'ara trying to suppress a sob, and failing. He felt a hand on one shoulder, and his side was enveloped in a depressed embrace. Ji'ara was hugging him, her tears soaking into his shirt. He rose and hugged back, weeping. Bjørn did not know how long they held, but he heard the healer say, "I am so sorry, Bjørn. Your father is at peace, and is hopefully enjoying the next life with your mother. But, listen here, you need to take care of your physical wounds, too. You need to take care of that arrow wound to your shoulder, so no journeys, just rest."

The rest of the day was a blur, but he remembered clearly reading his father's will. It had stated for all of his and his wife's possessions to go to Bjørn, and requested that he sell their home, and make a new one in Skyrim. He seemed to have dozed, because when he looked at the window, the morning sun was rising, and with it, Bjørn's new purpose. He tried to cut himself off from the previous day. He didn't want to focus on what had happened. But he couldn't help himself; his final thought before getting up was, It's all my fault.

An hour later, he had set up for all of his possessions to be taken to his father's Skyrim estate, the old home of his thrice-great grandmother, the hero of the Oblivion Crisis. He had then sold the house to a merchant whom his father had known.

"I will take good care of this place," the Imperial man said. "Where will you go now?"

"Skyrim..." Bjørn replied. He honestly didn't have much direction, but come hell or high water, he was going to honor his parents.

"Good luck, friend. May your journey be swift and safe."

"Thank you..." He left for the village stables, to see Do'Khar and Ji'ara standing there. They were both Khajiits and were brother and sister. Do'Khar was exceptionally tall for a Cathay, 6'4", and 26 years old, with blue eyes, deep brown fur, black tabby-like stripes, and a well-groomed black goatee. Ji'ara was also Cathay, and stood about 5'9", was 24 years old, also had blue eyes, and had white fur, striped like that of a tiger, and her white hair was shoulder-length on the right side, and cut to the fur on the left.

'Do'Khar's horse, a Cyrodili Thoroughbred named Golden-mane, was readied with tack, and even saddlebags, unlike the other horses.

"Do'Khar, what are you doing?" Bjørn asked with a raised eyebrow.

"This one will go ahead, make sure that things will be alright when you guys get there. Please, let yourself rest and mourn, my friend."

"Wait a min—" Bjørn started.

"Please... besides, you will need proper lodging when you two arrive." He put a foot in a stirrup, grabbed onto the saddle, and vaulted himself on top of it. "At least wait for a day, so you can say your goodbyes."

"Where will I stay the night?"

"This one's home. You can rest on the couch if need be." Before Bjørn could object, Do'Khar was already off. Bjørn knew that the journey from their village in the southern portion of Burma county to even the border of Skyrim would take at least two days, if they were lucky. Bjørn's father had been Do'Khar's mentor, as well as Ji'ara's, and Do'Khar would always go into a stoic state when he was depressed. The only other time he had seen Do'Khar like this was when Zayrina had left to seek adventures in the province of High Rock. Those two had been close, and when she left, Do'Khar had been near-emotionless and aloof for a whole month. Just like now, Bjørn thought, with a sigh.

"Let's just go and prepare, okay?" Ji'ara said, in her usual silky tone. She was always determined to make sure her friends were happy, even at the cost of her own. She rested a hand against his arm. He nodded, fighting the urge to hold her hand. He had heard the term "misery loves company," but he didn't want to spread misery to his friends, especially not Ji'ara. He had at times entertained the idea of a romantic relationship with her, but he had always been too afraid that she would reject. He wasn't exactly confident in himself, especially not now.

When they had arrived at Do'Khar and Ji'ara's house, the pair had spent the next few hours preparing for the journey. They gathered traveling clothes, prepared the tack for Bjørn's horse, and, Bjørn said his goodbyes to the friends and neighbors whom he had known since childhood. By the time the sun was starting to embrace the horizon once more, he felt content, through the obvious fact that he was evading his grief. Until, that was, when Bjørn realized that Ji'ara wanted to go with him. "Ji'ara, please... I need to do this on my own," he said.

"No," Ji'ara replied.

"But—"

"First, they were your parents, but they were our mentors," her tone was sharp, her face angry. "Second," her tone softened, pained, "you need someone with you, to shoulder the burden." She bit her lip and closed her eyes, fighting tears.

"I'm... I'm sor—" he was cut off by her ramming into him, holding him tight in an embrace. He winced, slightly, trying to hide his physical pain. Her head rest against his shoulder, suppressing tears. He held her in return, eyes closed. Then, he began to sob, uncontrollably. He had been trying to hold his emotions back, trying to distract himself with a arduous journey so as not to focus on his own loss. He rested more of his weight on her, rested his head against her's and let his emotions flow out. "I failed them!"

"What?" She looked at him, their faces inches apart.

"If I had been smart enough, if I had actually followed what my dad had taught me, they wouldn't be dead! My mom and dad are dead, and it's my fault! I'm so sorry that I'm such a failure of a human being that we've lost them." He pulled away, and let himself fall, face-first on the living room couch. He groaned at the pain but reasoned that he deserved it.

"You didn't fail them, you didn't fail Do'Khar or this one. If your mother hadn't shoved you out of the way, you'd have been the one impaled. And your father made his sacrifice to allow you to kill the bandit leader." Bjørn rolled to face her. She was sitting near him, her hand reached for his face. "If this one lost you... I don't know how I'd keep going." His eyes, still spewing tears, widened. At this point, his mind was racing. He had no idea how to process what had happened, and it showed.

"I—I... do you—" he started. He was stopped by her hand resting on his cheek, the soft pads of her hand rubbing through his beard and onto his skin. Her expression was simultaneously one of pain and one of desire. From her reaction in her beautiful eyes, he knew that his face said the same. They both then realized, or so it seemed to Bjørn, their emotions about each other. Ji'ara softly lowered herself, let her body rest against his, and softly rubbed her hands against his shoulder and face. He felt her warmth, and didn't say a word, but rested his hands against her back, and felt the soft linen of her tunic. She gasped slightly, pain marking her bruises, and she slightly, involuntarily stabbed his shoulder with her claws. "I'm sor—" she stopped him by pressing a finger to his lips. This physical contact made him feel warm, like through the blizzard of pain that surrounded him, Ji'ara was like a fire that kept him safe.

After what felt like only a minute, she lifted up, sat on the other side of the couch. Bjørn sat up, and realized that the moons Masser and Secunda were both in the star-speckled sky. Even if words would be expected for this moment, they didn't speak. Bjørn looked upon Ji'ara and the full realization was like a slap to the face. He shuffled across the couch, awkwardly trying to maintain some grace. He was about to speak, but was stopped by Ji'ara leaning against him. She even rested her head against his shoulder. He decided not to say anything, even though he wanted to. Despite the horror that he had seen last night, he felt some level of comfort and safety with her, and he didn't want this feeling to end. He actually felt at pea—

The door crashed open to the shouts of a burly Nord. "HEY BJØRN!!"

Ji'ara and Bjørn were so startled, they physically leapt off of the couch. "WINGS OF AKATOSH!!!" Bjørn shouted as he fell, colliding against the coffee table. He hit the table at an unfortunate angle, the debilitating pain of his crotch smashing against the oak table causing him to roll off, groaning. Ji'ara landed next to him, her fur puffed, and pupils so wide, they were round.

"Oh damn, are you okay?" the Nord asked, and Bjørn realized it was Sven, the town blacksmith and an old friend of Bjørn's father.

"No!" Ji'ara said.

"Sven, what the hell?" Bjørn asked, one hand over his groin, and one over his shoulder, and he felt the dampness of blood in his tunic. Sven seemed to have a bit of a wildness in his eyes.

"I—I I know you're about to leave so I made you a parting gift," Sven said quickly. His voice was frantic, unnatural, stimulated.

"Sven, you haven't gotten back into old habits, have you?"

"No! I wouldn't spoil your parents' help like that. That said... I did kinda drink three jugs of matze and coffee."

"You drank matze... and coffee? Together?" Ji'ara asked, rhetorically.

"I was reminiscing about when Hisveld, Sigralith, and I used to adventure, and always have a couple of Matzes at the tavern when we completed a job." Sven speech slowed to normal, a few tears dripping from his eyes. "And I knew they would've wanted me to give you something; a sort of good luck charm and parting gift." Bjørn sat up, slowly. Sven walked over to them, and set a sword on the table. It was a longsword, with a gilded crossguard with several engravings. The pommel was gilded too, and the hilt was wrapped in dark suede. And the blade was made of pure ebony, and looked sharp enough to cut through thick leather like paper. "Makna and I set aside our differences to assemble this sword." Makna had been Sven's rival blacksmith, and they had always debated various functionalities of their craft.

"Thank you, Sven, and tell Makna I thanked him, as well," Bjørn said, awestruck.

"But, I'm going to go to bed, now," Sven said. "It's about midnight, actually. You should get some rest, too... wait, were you two having a moment?"

"Excuse me?!" Bjørn said. He tried to hide the flush of heat in his cheeks.

"Ha ha! Your father would be chuckling with joy to see that!" Ji'ara and Bjørn looked at each other, and looked away, quickly. "Well, I guess he and I won the bet..."

"Bet? What bet?"

"Oh damnit... a few of us got together and made a bet: whether you two would, y'know... get together."

"That isn't something to bet about!"

"Yeah, I guess it was a certainty—"

"That... came out wrong."

"You have to admit, you two look pretty cute together, especially when you're sitting next to her when she looks like a ball of fluff." Before Bjørn could say another word, Sven took off, quickly closing the door, laughing. Bjørn looked at Ji'ara, a crooked smile on his face.

"Hmm, I may have to agree with him on that, you do look pretty cute—er beautiful—gah, oh dear." His face was flush again, and he stumbled over his tongue trying not to seem foolish. His face turned even brighter and warmer when he realized she was giggling, quietly. Oh crap, now I look like a buffoon, he thought. Before he could say anything else, Ji'ara gracefully lowered herself onto the floor, inches away from Bjørn. Then she moved closer, and Bjørn felt her lips press against his, felt the slight suction from her mouth, her fur against his skin, faced the soft ambrosial scent of her fur. This sensation lasted a brief second, but he relished this feeling. She pulled away, a sultry smile lightly painted on her lips. Bjørn was still a bit struck dumb by this surprising pleasure.

She yawned. "I'm going to bed, goodnight."

"Goodnight," he said it, maybe a bit too eagerly. She laughed a bit, and smiled with warmth as she turned for her room. Bjørn got up, laid down on the couch, and let passionate fancies line his mind. His shoulder hurt like oblivion, but he would re-bandage it, later. After just a bit of rest. His mind in a world of its own, he drifted into sleep.

Do'Khar Astahe yawned, wearily. After traveling for seventeen straight hours, seven of those hours in medium snowfall, the walled city of Bruma came into view. The sight of the stone walls was welcome after hours of mountainous terrain, trees, and snow. As he reached the gate, a guard said, "Greetings, traveler." The guard was surprisingly a Dunmer, with grey-ish skin and red eyes showing through his helmet.

"Hello, sir. May I ask if this city has an inn?"

"There are two taverns, Olav's Tap and Tack, and the Jerall View Inn. Jerall View is more expensive, but better quality, and I can see that an exhausted traveler like yourself would probably prefer that." Do'Khar nodded, blinking hard to try to keep himself awake. "Jerall View is near the center of town, just go straight past this gate, you can't miss it. You can have a stableboy take your horse to the stables."

Just then, a stableboy came over to him. Do'Khar gave him twenty-five septims, saying, "take my horse to the stables, and give him some fine hay and water, please."

"Yes sir," the boy said, eager to earn that pay. Leading Golden-mane by the reins, the boy walked in the direction of the stables.

"Before you go," the guard said, "have your ancestors ever been to Morrowind, before?" This question snapped Do'Khar into attentiveness.

"Why do you ask?" He asked.

"I remember when I was younger, only fifty, and I met a young Khajiit, she had your bearing, and your face. She and I traveled a bit through Vardenfall, and I saw some really strange stuff. Met a friendly Nord who accompanied us, too. That was some 200 years ago, but before the last time I saw her, she told me to go to Cyrodiil and get a good job." That story matched exactly the story of—

"Was her name Jasrin?"

"Yes! She was a relative of yours?"

"She was my quadruple-great grandmother. And the Nerevarine, if you believe the legends."

"Oh, those legends were true, she had the heart of a warrior, just like that of great Nerevar."

"You're Roneras Belno, right? That's what I had heard you called."

"Yes, and if you ever need assistance, know that a descendent of Jasrin Astahe is a friend of mine."

"Okay. And, before I go, my sister and a friend will stop by here, probably. She looks like a white Tiger, and my friend is a dark-haired Nord. Could you tell them I'm alright?"

"Of course." As Do'Khar began to enter the city, Roneras said, "As I've heard the Nords say, may the wind be at your back." Do'Khar walked through the streets, the dark and dimly-lit houses. And the bright lights from what he could tell was the inn that Roneras had told him about. After walking a couple of short stairs and turning a corner, he saw the door to the Jardel View inn. He opened the door to the sound of music and banter.

"—for the darkness has passed and the legend yet grows...You'll know, you'll know, the Dragonborns come," sang an Nord woman with a lute, along with a female Khajiit and Bosmer playing a second lute and a lyre, respectively. The three sang without words, harmonizing beautifully.

As Do'Khar neared the bar, he asked a Nord woman, "How much for a room, please?"

"Twenty septims," the woman replied. "You want anything to eat?"

"Yes please. What do you recommend?"

"The carrot cake, it's our specialty."

"Okay, I'll have four slices." A few seconds later, the woman placed a plate of carrot cake slices in front of him.

"That's twenty-four septims for that," she said, "you can pay that along with a room." He placed forty-four septims on the table, and listened to the music as he ate.

The women sang again. "Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, Naal ok zin los vahriin, Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal, Ahrk fin norok paal graan, Fod nust hon zindro zaan, Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal." He wondered what strange language that was, because he remembered Hisveld singing those words, once. Do'Khar noticed another voice join in on those words, however, a voice he recognized. He looked to his left, and saw a female kahjiit sitting on a barstool, with a mug in hand, someone who he never expected to see here.

"Zayrina!?" His mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide with shock. She turned on hearing him, and she seemed just as thunderstruck as he was.

"Do'Khar, is that you?" They moved towards each other, and hugged, passionately. He had missed the feeling of her body pressed against his, wrapped in embrace. A few patrons clapped, not only at the music, but at them. He looked, and saw that the bards were looked at them and talking. They prepared for another song.

The bardic trio began to sing again, with the lead being the only one playing a lute, with a soft, romantic melody. The two swayed together with the tune. "These scars long have yearned for your tender caress...To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own...Rend my heart open, then your love profess...A winding, weaving fate to which we both atone—" this music continued as Do'Khar and Zayrina released each other, and Do'Khar began to speak.

"What has happened? Did that jimetiit of a partner finally bite the dust, or go off on his own stupid way?"

"No," Zayrina replied, "I'm still stuck with that jekosiit, and he's in the tavern, trying to show off his overinflated ego." She pointed to the center of the tavern, showing the obnoxious Altmer that Zayrina had had the misfortune of partnering with. Gyrllon at first seemed a charming swashbuckler seeking adventure, but one would eventually see that he was a narcissist that cared only for fame and cumulatively having as many brief romances as there are branches of an oak tree. He seemed to now be wooing some new unfortunate maiden. Zayrina would've kicked that jerk in the crotch a long time ago, if it weren't for the contract they had signed. "Anyway, where's Bjørn and Ji'ara? You three have always been a team."

Do'Khar sighed. "I went ahead, to let them be alone with their emotions."

"Do'Khar, you sound mournful; has something happened?"

"Hisveld and Sigralith... are dead..." Do'Khar closed his eyes, his head facing the ground.

"No... I'm so sorry." Do'Khar looked up. Zayrina looked guilty.

"This wasn't your—"

"I tried to get us a job here, to deal with a bunch of bandits, but Gyrllon beat me to a job. He got us one in Skyrim, where we were basically loan sharks." She sounded enraged, saddened, and guilty at the same time.

"Zayrina, we were lucky to survive; if Hisveld and Sigralith could be brought down by an army of those proportions... I was lucky, and was trapped by a fallen wooden tower, but Bjørn got a nasty arrow wound to his shoulder, and he actually got that to protect my sister, and she's sustained nasty bruises from the fighting. We were lucky that we made it out with our lives, let alone with no major injuries." Despite these words, Do'Khar's disgust towards the pompous mer turned to hatred, for he knew that any amount of assistance could've possibly changed the events of that battle. "You couldn't have known, so please don't feel guilty. Let's just focus on the now, we've found each other again, and I'm not letting us get separated again." He rested his arms around her waist.

"Here," the Nord at the bar said. There were twenty septims on the bar. "She already paid for her room." Zayrina developed a grin, as she lead Do'Khar by the arm, down the stairs, through the hallway, to their room. As soon as the door closed, they embraced and Do'Khar swiftly moved to unlace the unbutton the leather straps in place on her armor, as she moved to divest of his heavy coat. The armor and coat fell to the floor, as the two held each other with passion, stumbling wildly.

The music continued as the singers crooned the last of the lyrics. "The wish I whispered when it all began...Did it forge a love you might never have found?...You flee my dream come the morning...Your scent - berries tart, lilac sweet...To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy...Of yellow eyes, glistening as you weep." The bards strummed on as the lovers began a passionate dance.

Author's note: well, that's the first chapter! I've never played Skyrim, but I am a fan, and hope to do the story justice while keeping to a sense of realism. I always wondered, from a story perspective, what the backstory of the Dragonborn is, and so this first chapter was to set a clear reason as to why he went to Skyrim in the first place. There will be some surprises in the story, but I won't spoil anything, but let's just say there'll be more than just dragons against our Dovahkiin. And, don't worry, Chapter Two will be where the action really picks up! I hope you guys like my story, have a good time, y'all!

Khajiit (Ta'agra) Vocabulary:

Jekosiit: lover of sheep, an insult that I read as meaning a base person.

Jimetiit: milk-drinker, also an insult.