Chapter 1

It could be beautiful, he thought to himself, serene they would call it. Almost picturesque. The moon hung above the mountains, skewered on one of the peaks, as if Azura had placed it there herself. Its soft white light splayed across the icy peaks and slopes, causing the mountains to shimmer and sparkle in the cold night air. A soft snowfall fell around him, some of it landing softly on his shoulders. Below, flames flickered and danced, warming him against the bite of the cold night air. A scene from a painting or a tapestry. Almost beautiful. It may have been beautiful, if not for the smell of burnt flesh that pervaded the night air. In the valley below, there was no traveler's campfire to ward off the night's chill. It wasn't a bonfire to keep the wolves and sabre cats at bay. It was a small farming village, set to the torch by savages, marauders, barbarians. Three families had lived here, attempting to eke out a meager living from the Reach's hardened soil. Now their homes were burning to cinders, and the residents themselves…

General Stormblade, Theoren Dragonslayer, heard the soft footfalls crunching against the snow and the whinny of a horse behind him. Without turning from the blaze, he addressed the approaching rider, "Ralof, are there any survivors?"

"No, sir," the rider replied, "they've killed them all. Forsworn bastards. They set them to the torch. Before or after killing them, we're not certain. The animals were either run off or captured."

Theoren slumped at the news. The Forsworn had become increasingly hostile and increasingly brazen. This was their fourth attack in as many days. Each time, it was the same. Descend at night, harass settlers or caravans, kill them, steal their goods and set everything else to fire. Attacks from the Forsworn were a standard, if irregular, occurrence, yet the level of organization in their recent spree was astonishing. The first night, they attacked in the far north of the Reach, drawing the patrols and platoons to the furthest reach of the hold, only to strike against unguarded and under protected lands the next day. And so it continued the following night, and so it was on this day, their fourth attack. It had taken Theoren and his men hours to reach this village.

He turned to Ralof, "Are there any tracks? Any prints that we can follow? Any indication where these Forsworn vermin have gone?"

Ralof shook his head. "No, sir. Most of the tracks have been obscured by the snow. What is left it a tangled mass of animal paths and footprints. Some lead into the mountains, but following them in this light would be suicide."

Theoren shook with anger. "Suicide? Our duty is to protect these people! With our lives if need be. If these vermin are anywhere near here, if there is any chance that we can catch them, even one of them, then it is our duty to do so. Round up the men." He stared up into the cold hills and watched as the moon slowly slid behind the peaks.

Ralof nodded his assent and turned his horse to head back down into the valley. Theoren plodded over to his horse and swung himself onto its back. He ran his hand along the two handed blade that hung from his saddle. Thumörén, Shouter's Glorious Roar, he called it. He pulled it from the scabbard and watched the fading moonlight dance across its surface. It glimmered softly, both from the moonlight as well as the ancient magicka folded into it. Theoren smiled. Dragons have their talons and teeth, he thought, and I have you.

Sliding the blade back into its scabbard, he spurred his horse into the valley and joined his men. Stormcloak soldiers, they still wore their dark blue cloaks and cuirasses from the war for Skyrim's freedom. Most of them were veterans, men who had fought beside Ulfric throughout his struggle against the Empire. Some of them were present as the Dragonborn captured Solitude and completed the defeat of the Empire. There were some with him, however, who joined after Ulfric's coronation. They had never seen battle and their eyes betrayed their fear. Theoren went to them now, trying to calm their fears and instill them with confidence. Having gathered the men, he turned his horse towards the mountains and they began the long slow climb into the icy hills.

The moon had finally descended behind the mountains, casting a cloud of darkness over the soldiers. Dawn was still hours away. The few mages among them lit the way with fire the burst forth from their hands. Theoren wished there were more mages with them, silently cursing the Nordic superstition that caused fear and distrust of magicka adepts. The horses strained to continue up the steep slopes and he could tell that the men were becoming tired. Howls rang in the distance. Bringing them to a halt, Theoren dismounted and spoke softly, "Ralof, pick four others to accompany us. The rest of you, turn back down the mountain and set up camp. If we're not back by midday…" His voice trailed off. Though he wasn't ready yet to quit the search, there was little hope that they would find something. Four men stepped forward, each volunteering to continue on. Theoren nodded at them. "Alright, you four with us. The rest of you, take our horses, from here, we will continue on foot." The soldiers dismounted. Theoren slung Thumörén's scabbard over his shoulder and tightened the strap. Donning his helm, he led the small party up the slopes. The other soldiers took the reins of their horses and began to slowly wind their way down the mountain.

Minutes turned into grueling hours as the men climbed their way up and through the sharp crags in the mountainside. In the west, the first rays of sunlight began to break across the horizon. The men stopped to catch their breath. Ralof pointed across one of the slopes, "Sir…General, look, a cave." Theoren turned to see the open maw of a chamber built into the rock face. Silently, he slid Thumörén from its scabbard and approached.

Turning to his men, he whispered, "Weapons at the ready men. Proceed quietly." The men unsheathed their swords or axes and those with shields hoisted them in front. Slowly, they slid into the cavern. Darkness quickly surrounded them as they delved deeper into the cavern. The wide opening soon compressed to a very narrow pathway. Slowly, silently, they snaked their way through, trying to keep their steel weapons and armor from clanging against the hard rock.

One of them muttered, "I can't even see my own shield in front of my face." Another muffled his agreement. A few hundred feet further, the walls finally started to fall away.

Theoren whispered. "We must be in some sort of chamber or cavern. Hod, did you bring a torch?" Hod grunted and passed a heavy pole wrapped in oil soaked rags forward. Summoning the little he knew of magicka use, Theoren lit the rags with fire from his fingertip. Quickly, the torch became engulfed in flame and the room burst forth with light. The room around them was much larger than any of them had anticipated. The walls fell away to reveal an enormous chamber with a long, wide hallway carved into the other side. Around them, the ruins of what was once a great throne room hall lay in rubbled heaps. However, the former denizens of this once great hall were long since scattered. In their place lay a small dragon.

As the men stared into the empty room, the dragon began to stir. It was small, by dragon standards, with a with a wing span slightly greater than the height of two or three men. It stood up, and, noticing its visitors for the first time, roared. Ralof and the men began to slowly back away, pushing themselves into the small crevice they had emerged from. Theoren, on the other hand, stepped forward defiantly. The dragon, angered by the arrogance of the smaller human breathed in deeply. "Yol Toor Shul!"

Fire exploded from the dragon's mouth, a long searing stream. In response, Theoren drew air deep into his lungs and screamed, "Fo Krah Diin!" The thu'um tinged his mouth with frozen air as the air of the two shouts collided.

The dragon, shocked by the thu'um of a human, stepped back. "Dovah? No, mun joor nuz thu'um do dov. You are man yet shout like dragon. Dovahkiin?"

Theoren stepped forward, "Yes, Dovahkiin los het, Kriid do Alduin. The Dovahkiin is here, slayer of Alduin."

"Alduin," the small dragon replied. "I felt his sil, soul, torn from this world along with many of my zeymahs. Have you slain them all?"

"All who would threaten my people." He looked into the dragon's eyes, Thumörén waving softly in his hand. "And what of you? Do you wish to test your thu'um against the kriin do Alduin?"

The dragon, enraged by the challenge of a mere mortal did not respond. Instead, it quickly rushed forward, its mouth opening to catch the Dragonborn in its jaws. Theoren stepped back, thrusting his sword forward into the soft gum of the dragon's maw. The dragon reared back and screeched, then shouted, "Fus Ro Dah!" Theoren, unprepared for the sudden onslaught slammed against a broken pillar. The dragon quickly moved forward. "You wear the bones of my zeymah for your armor, yet it cannot be as strong as those of a true dovah." The dragon snapped again, its powerful jaws snapping closed inches from Theoren's arm. He scrambled to his feet and swung his sharp blade for the dragon's neck. The steel bit into the scales, tearing open the dragon's flesh and spilling his blood against the stone floors.

Undaunted, the dragon snapped its head around and pulled in another deep breath. However, before he could speak, Theoren shouted, "Krii Lun Aus!" The thu'um pierced the dragon like a sharp lance, wounding it and sending it sprawling back. Drawing another breath, Theoren charged forward, "Iiss Slen Nus!" Ice burst forth from his lungs, stealing his breath. The burst of frost, however, shocked his opponent and gave him the opportunity to attack. Swinging Thumörén above his head, Theoren slashed again at the dragon's neck and then drove the sword's point deep into his opponent's gullet. The dragon let out one final scream as life faded from its body. His arms shaking from the thrashing of the dragon, Theoren pulled his sword out and raised it again. However, the dragon fell to the stone floor as its soul and life rushed into Theoren's consciousness. He felt the overwhelming sensation as the dragon's knowledge and memories became his own. Then, as soon as it began, it ended, leaving him alone.

He turned toward the crevice he had walked through earlier, only to find his men staring in disbelief. Ralof stepped forward, "I…I had heard the stories, but, never did I expect anything like that."

Theoren frowned and wiped the dragon's blood off from his sword. "Never mind that now. We have yet to find what we came here for and it already grows late. We should return to the camp." Silently, the men nodded in agreement and set out the way they came in.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! Just a note, Theoren's sword, Thumörén, is not a perfectly pronounced phrase in the Dragon Tongue. Instead, its a slurred pronunciation and variation of the words Thu'um- shout, Moro – glory, and Rein- roar. There's a whole other story about how this blade came to be, but that's, possibly, for another time. For now, suffice to say that it's a very special sword to Theoren and was the one he carried into battle and slew Alduin with.