The Dragonborn saw his reflection in the water as he bent his knees, bringing himself closer to his image. After a couple days of travelling, the three found themselves somewhere in the Rift, the land warmer than Kynesgrove of Eastmarch, but it still had the cool breeze to it to afford a comfortable wear. One wear of warmth that the Dragonborn had was his special wolf cloak, or more like a short cape. It would tie at the very middle of his chest, and drape over his shoulders, and run down his back in a triangular shape, the very tip ending at the mid of his spine. It was something he gained over his time in Riverwood during the war, when he dishonorably took time off from the Legion to help Hadvar's town and Whiterun to prepare for a possible dragon attack; he figured that if the rest of his Legion thought he was dead, then it's best he takes advantage of that and do other things before emerging as one of the survivors of the Helgen dragon attack.
Beyond his self-burdened duties of protecting his friend's town, the Dragonborn, though he was still just Arminius at the time, ran errands for the small population of the town. In weeks, he had made friends with the Valerius siblings, and even helped get them back their golden claw from Bleak Falls Barrow, the burial dungeon that resided on the mountain across the river, overlooking the town from several miles away. It was probably the first time he has made a trek alone, well of course Camilla Valerius accompanied him part way there, even a bit further beyond the bridge that ran across the river, even though her brother, Lucan, forbid it.
She was rebellious in a way, though, like a Stormcloak, only she was an Imperial. When he walked in on the two having an argument, she was insisting that she goes up to the top and takes back the Golden Claw herself. He chuckled, looking at her, imagining her traveling up a mountain and fighting anything in that cold, donning only her dress and armed with her iron dagger. When he started on the path, Camilla was very persistent to accompany him on the way there, but he refused and said that she should listen to her brother and stay until he returns. With hesitance, and more arguments, she eventually agreed.
Along the way, he encountered bandits, in which he violently fought through without mercy, something that was quite unlike him. His out of character violence and hatred for brigands goes far beyond simple mistrust; it was a special experience that made him think of these things, but to bandits only. When he lived in war-torn Cyrodiil, he would often travel with his father, transporting his farm's produce to sell to the needy public in a nearby settlement. One day when he was fifteen they came across a broken young woman, naked and holding herself in fetal position. She had tears in her wide eyes, fear and terror glinting in them. It was then she explained that a group of Bandits attacked her family while they were migrating, decapitated her husband, hung her two children, and gang-raped her till she could barely feel herself anymore.
The story alone nearly brought the young Arminius to tears, but it wasn't until they had come across the site of the disturbing carnage in which he lost his emotions, anger and rage taking over his mind. His adoptive father, a Great War veteran, who had raised him to fight and remain hardened, had lost control of himself as well. He swore to the woman that he would find the ones who did it and strike the rage of oblivion down on them. Soon enough, he and his father did; it was the first time that Arminius has killed someone, before his training in the Legion. They said it feels horrible to kill someone at first, like stealing from a market, and that it gets easier; but slicing through the throat of the bandit that lay beneath him, defeated, he felt nothing.
It was an experience he hoped he never would have to live through again, of course, up until his journey to Bleak Falls Barrow.
He fought through many different enemies, even a giant spider in which he barely slew, and made his way to the end. He found the claw, and a mysterious wall containing words in a language he knew nothing of at the end of it. Strange enough, a light aura had jumped from a formed letter on the wall and seared into his mind. He was frightened at first, for he had absolutely no idea what had happened.
Eventually, though, he left the dungeon successful, golden claw in pouch and everything. He returned the claw to Lucan and Camilla and they were more than grateful for his generosity. Lucan, in return, allowed him almost three fourths off everything in the store; Camilla, however, acted much more friendly to him. For the next couple of weeks, he and Camilla would often sit and chat at the Tavern in the town; as time goes by, they became less formal, acting more friendly, and then reaching the level of flirtatious.
One day she approached with the short cape made of wolf hide in her hands and handed it to him. She said that she made it herself, and that she thinks it would look good on him. He tried it on over his steel imperial armor, and of course he liked it and decided to wear it all the time as it held the feeling of warmth and soft fur wrapping around his shoulders. He thanked her and smiled.
She immediately turned flirtatious, and told him that what would look better on him would be nothing. He smiled, seductively at her, thinking through his mind that he wasn't surprised of her attraction to him. He may have been officially recognized as an Imperial, but his half Nordic genes gave him a very chiseled and tall stature; not to mention his face displayed the handsomeness of a god, as he jokingly liked to think and as agreed with by Camilla; she specifically noted his shapely facial features, heavy stubble, and groomed black hair.
After that, he picked her up bridal style and carried her out into the woods. He set her down on a sawed off tree bark, allowing her to take in the sight of him as he stripped down naked for her, just like she wanted. He then untied her dress strings and allowed her dress to slip off. They then had their way with each other, panting and moaning between sweet kisses of cheeks and lips and the suckling of necks and breasts.
He brought his hunting knife up to his wet face, and scraped at the misshaped beard around his lips. Each pocket of hair cut would easily drop into the water, until his face would become clear. With finishing touches, the Dragonborn put back the hunting knife into the sheath on his belt and faced over the water, running his hand along his now smooth skin. He looks almost like he used to, except he has longer hair now. He'll probably look better once his facial hair starts to grow back in again.
He returned to the temporary camp he, Hadvar and Jenassa have made. In the middle was a half-assed camp fire, which was good enough; they weren't spending very much time there, only the night for some grub and rest before making the next half of the trip tomorrow. He saw Hadvar sitting by the crackling fire, sharpening his blade with an edged rock, which looks like he cleaned off at the pond. The Dragonborn loosened his belt and released it from his waist, with it the sheathed sword and knife, and he tossed it down next to his knapsack and sat.
"You look different," Hadvar said, looking up and then back to his sword. "Almost like a baby."
The Dragonborn chuckled. "Well maybe this baby can fool some dragons into underestimating me."
"A real strategist, aren't you?" They were silent for a moment until the Dragonborn piped in again.
"Where's Jenassa?"
"Catching some meat for us to eat," The Dragonborn stuck his thumbnail between his two front teeth and scraped.
"I hope it's not fish," He pulled his thumb from his mouth and eyed the space in his nail to see if he had anything under it. "It's only good gourmet style; you know, deboned completely, grilled over a fire in a coating of olive oil and salt, and served with a side of buttered rice."
"Now you're making me hungry," Hadvar said. Jenassa returned with a sack carrying a wet package.
"Venison," she said, tossing it onto the Dragonborn's lap. "You look strange." And then she threw herself down onto a sleeping roll that she set out for herself, hands resting under her head.
"Much better than fish, at least," he mumbled to himself. He took out the same hunting knife he used to shave and sliced out smaller pieces of the venison for each of them, putting extra elbow grease into severing the tough strings of fat. Like the sticks campers would use to roast edible items of theirs, the Dragonborn unsheathed his sword and stuck the small cut outs of meat on the tips, and lifted it to cook over the fire.
While cooking, Hadvar copied his friend with the sword tip technique. The Dragonborn had mentioned the use of salt, and that it would taste better. He hoped that Jenassa would have salt in her alchemy supplies, but she insisted that she didn't have any.
Once a piece of meat was done cooking, they would hold it out away from the fire to cool, and then bring it to their mouths, chewing off bits of it. Of course, using a sword as if it were a fork is rather idiotic, and can risk slicing a tongue; not to mention, the possibility that constant exposure to the heat from the fire could melt the tips of their swords. It didn't matter; it was a technique in camp life that Legionaries did if they were too lazy to bring out utensils, just use their swords as forks; of course it helps with caution, especially since having a sword unsheathed in times of rest can better prepare a soldier for an ambush, or frost from the air locking the sword in its sheath can be prevented with the heat from the fire.
"So…" Hadvar said between chews. "We're seeing the Greybeards?"
"Yeah," the Dragonborn replied. "The point of me retrieving that horn was to be accepted to learn the final word of power for Unrelenting Force."
"What's…unrelenting force?"
"It's what I used to shout at the dragon we just killed," the Dragonborn said. "It's supposed to push the opponent back, but it wasn't as effective since I only have two words of power for it." Then spoke the accented voice of the Dark Elf.
"So if you return that horn, then you will know the last word of power for this…'unrelenting force'?"
"The Greybeards will teach it to me, yes," replied the Dragonborn. The dark elf, still on her knapsack, turned sideways and held her head up with her palm and arm acting as cup and beam, and she faced him.
"For five months, the Greybeards kept you on High Hrothgar; what happened while you were up there?"
"Nothing, really," said the Dragonborn. "Strange as it is, I was taught not only shouts, but meditating and study."
"An obvious threat to the world has returned and the Greybeards taught you how to meditate and study?" said Hadvar.
"I'm not too sure they are very much aware of any dragons returning, other than me," said the Dragonborn. "I'm not complaining about it though; meditation helped me find peace, especially after the war and dealing with the post stress. I'm afraid, though, that I won't be finding very much peace with upcoming events."
"Peace, huh?" Hadvar said. "Maybe I should try it sometime; after all, I'm a veteran too."
"What about your study?" asked Jenassa.
"Oh, I learned a lot," answered the Dragonborn. "Basically as time goes, I was given books to read on old history, especially when it comes to Nordic culture and the connection with the Dragonborn legend."
"What did you find out?"
"Well, the first Dragonborn emerged in the Merethic Era, the time after the dawn era," the Dragonborn said. "Miraak was his name, but though he was to fight the Nordic God of destruction, instead he allied himself with Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora."
"Ahh, the Nordic God of destruction…" sighed Hadvar. "Alduin was his name, a dragon he was. My mother used to tell me bedtime stories of the legend of the Dragon War and the Tongues. Bards here sing songs about Alduin." When the Dragonborn heard the name, his eyes went wide and he stopped what he was doing, hanging his head down to the ground.
"Wait a minute…" he spoke. Hadvar and Jenassa looked at him concernedly.
"What is it, Arminius?" Jenassa asked. The Dragonborn pondered for the moment, rubbing his chin.
"Where have I…we, heard that name before: Alduin?" Hadvar and Jenassa stared blankly at each other. The Dragonborn stood up and paced slowly back and forth, his hands resembling a thinking man as he crossed one and held his chin with the other hand. "That Dragon we fought the other day, when it spoke to the one that revived it, do you remember what it said?" Hadvar and Jenassa both shook their heads. "I learned some things in the dragon language, and one of them sounded like a name: Alduin…"
"I remember it too, now," Jenassa said. "I heard it mention something similar to Alduin." The Dragonborn reached out and put his hand on Hadvar's shoulder.
"Do you remember anything that came from those Bard songs?"
"They said things like, 'his wings made it dark in the sky,' and 'his scales sharp in size', 'black wings,' and things like that." The Dragonborn then realized.
"That Black Dragon that flew away, did it not have sharp pointy scales and black wings itself?" Hadvar scrunched his face.
"It did…but it can't be him, Alduin is just a legend."
"The people thought the dragons were just legend themselves," Jenassa added. But we all saw with our own eyes that they are not." Hadvar ran his hands through his Auburn hair.
"That couldn't have been him!" He argued. "That could not have been Alduin!"
"But it was," Jenassa said, "The Nordic god of destruction is a dragon, and like all other dragons, he has returned." Hadvar lost it, and he began frantically pacing back and forth with his head in his hands.
"No no no, this is bad, this is very very bad!" He cried. "We're supposed to stop a god of destruction with two soldiers, an archer, and a crazy woman?!" Jenassa watched the soldier mumble angry words to himself, and then she looked to see the Dragonborn's reaction. He was rather calm, kneeling down by the campfire with his hands laced together into a ball and covering his lips, staring into the flickering light of heat.
"Arminius?" She called softly to him. The Dragonborn still stared into the fire, imagining it as one eternal flame and scorched in it was Mundus with the surface charred and devoid of life. He felt the dark elf's hand rest easily on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"
Calmly, he said, "Look at this flame; imagine it covering the rest of mundus. Where would all who stand against Alduin be to stop this?" He stood. "In the stories, they speak of the Tongues, ones who defeated Alduin when the Dragonborn abandoned them." He stepped in front of Hadvar and stopped him with a palm to his chest, and Hadvar looked at him sadly. "Calm yourself, my friend," he said, reassuringly. "Would the Tongues have allowed their fear of a god to consume them?" Hadvar's shoulders droope and he lowered his head. "The heart of man does not wilt as easily as the High Elves would like to think," he chuckled at his joke, and Hadvar looked up, his expression lightening up and he laughed slightly with him. The Dragonborn went back past them and to the fire. "I am supposed to be Dragonborn, and though I know I am not ready, I know that I have to accept my divine duty as the savior of Tamriel." He turned to face the two. "But am I to be alone on this noble crusade? Are my friends to abandon me, nevertheless the rest of man and mer to prove their worth?"
"Well…no, Arminius, I wasn't going to just abandon you," Hadvar said.
"Neither was I," Jenassa added. The Dragonborn smiled.
"I never had any doubt."
"Friends to the end, am I right?" Hadvar said, returning the smile. The Dragonborn reached out and pulled them in closer by their shoulders.
"Of course," he said.
Whooshing over a dark sky was the Horned Black Dragon, Alduin, with his fiery eyes that glowed in the night. His many jagged spikes and horns from his natural armor of scales defined his form, and could strike fear into the hearts of many mortals, and even his other peers. He flew over what he was searching for, the temple of Skuldafn, found in the thick of the Velothi mountains.
An ancient citadel, Skuldafn was built as one of the largest Temples of the Old Nordic Dragon Cult, almost as large as a city. With many ancient stones stacked upon each other in statues and towers, and stairs and corridors, the place can be used as though it were a fortress despite its old mossy state. That is what the Nordic God of Destruction had planned.
Alduin swooped down and landed on an arc, the stones holding together like his weight was nothing, only allowing for dust and specks to topple down. Alduin retracted his wings and like a bat, wrapped them around himself, as he moved his head and eyes, looking around the area.
Several of his inferior Kinsmen circled overhead, roaring and letting them echo. One swooped down as well, this time the dragon had scales not as sharp of blade like as Alduin, or even black enough to relate. This Dragon had scales like most other Dragons, but had a unique coloring of red on top and a more yellow under side. This Red Dragon landed on a pillar as well, mimicking Alduin as it turned its murderous white eyes, pupils shaped like needles.
"Alduin," the Red Dragon acknowledged.
"Tiid lost meyz, Odahviing" said Alduin. "Dovahkiin lost daal ol pruzah ol Zu'u lost."
"Hi los wah praad un malaar ol . .. precaution, folov?" The Red Dragon, Odahviing, said.
"Nahkriin fent alok het," Alduin said. Odahviing gave a deep throaty laugh.
"This shall be fun," he said, and he and Alduin turned toward a single old coffin that was positioned out in the open, the middle of the surface. Immediately, Alduin began to speak more in his dragon tongue, voicing himself louder into a chant. Like with the last, thunder and lightning stuck as his menacing voice echoed, until eventually the lid to the coffin had bursted open, flying feet away from the main body. Rising out of it, floating, was a skeletal body that was dressed in torn robes with a lining of scales that were very dragon like going down its torso and across its shoulders. A circlet was placed on its head, just around a very strange mask that represented squinted humans eyes, but no nose or mouth.
Its hands were lifted as its body turned upright, and in one of its hands was a staff, grey colored for it was ancient, and its head modeled that of a serpent with its mouth hung open like it was ready to latch onto its prey.
After it moved away from the coffin, the skeletal figure in the Dragon Priest's outfit slowly looked up at Alduin. It raised its hands and bowed its head in praise.