You are high in the air, so high that the sky above you is black and the stars shine bright. Below you, Tamriel. The continent is flat, as though it were a map, and it is in flames. From the flames, several massive towers emerge from the ground. One to the northwest in High Rock, one in the center, which you recognize as the White-Gold Tower, and one on the Summerset Isles. You see the Red Mountain rise from Vvardenfell, then the Throat of the World out of Skyrim, then a large, unfamiliar tree from southwest of Tamriel. One by one you watch as the flames surrounding them climb up the towers, and they crumble and fall to the ground. As they crumble, the very land around them is torn apart by earthquakes, tsunamis, thunder storms, and volcanoes that sprout from seemingly nowhere. This continues until only the tower on the Summerset Isles remains. Although this saves the Isles from the devastation of the continent, you see them wither away and sink into the ocean. You feel an overwhelming sense of weakness and despair, and suddenly, you begin to fall. You close your eyes just before you hit the ground.
You open your eyes and you realize you're in Sovngarde, standing on a small mountain overlooking Shor's Hall. You feel a sense of easiness and contentment. A sound above you catches your ear, and you look up. Descending down towards you at a dive is a massive, glowing hawk. You see, wrapped around its neck like a collar, a beautiful amulet. A massive ruby gem the shape of a diamond, enclosed in a golden band with 8 smaller jewels embedded in it. Sitting on the hawk's head is a dark iron crown that crackles with lighting. The hawk continues its descent towards you, and you cannot move. You wince as it flies directly into your chest, and an explosion of light blinds you.
As the light clears, you are once again in the air above the burning lands of Tamriel. But this time, armies march at your command against the flames that consume the world, and you are invigorated with a sense of power and purpose. You Shout, with your inherited power of dragons, and with each Shout the flames recede. It is an arduous task, and more than once you drop to your knees in exhaustion. But every time you drop a bright glowing orb, which feels familiar but distant, rises out of each of the towers and rushes towards you and hits you, just as the hawk did. Then you stand back up. Eventually, the flames are snuffed out, and you fall backwards one last time. Below, unnumbered souls cry out in relief and celebration. You fall slowly, like you're being lowered by unseen hands, and you close your eyes. At the last second, the speed of your fall increases tenfold. You hit the ground—
—gasping for air, the man shot up in his bed. He was covered in sweat, and despite just having woken up from a long sleep he was exhausted. The man removed the blanket from his legs and turned to put his feet on the floor, wiping the sweat from his face and using his hands to flow his long, dark hair behind his head. This had been the 4th time this month that the man had had that dream, the exact same vivid dream that stayed in his mind long after waking up. It was becoming clear that these dreams were not a natural occurrence, although their meaning remained obscure to the man himself.
With a grunt, the man pushed himself out of bed and made his way to the washbasin in the corner of his room, grabbing the pitcher of water on his nightstand as he went by. He brought the pitcher up to his mouth and took several large gulps, then poured the rest in the washbasin and bent over, cupping the water and splashing it onto his face and shoulders. He grabbed the cloth on the side of the washbasin and patted himself dry as he walked to the dresser at the foot of his bed. There was a small mirror on the dresser, and the man stared at his reflection.
In his past, the man had gone by several different names. He had a name when he was a child, growing up in the Jerall Mountains near Falkreath with his mother and father before they left to fight in the Great War, never to return. He had given a different name when he was brought to Helgen, and used that name when he joined the Companions in Whiterun. When it was revealed that he was Dragonborn, he reluctantly left the halls of Jorrvaskr so that he could go to the Greybeards. He then simply went by his title of Dragonborn during the months of his quest to stop Alduin, a title which helped him secure a temporary truce in the Civil War. And now, since returning to Tamriel from Sovngarde, he had remained in High Hrothgar under a different name. A name given to him by the Greybeards, a name he finally decided he had earned.
Ysmir, the Dragon of the North.
Ysmir put on his robes and made his way through the stone monastery to the courtyard of High Hrothgar. His life, and by extension today, consisted of chores such as cooking and cleaning, meditation, practicing Shouts, and learning from the other Greybeards. It was a simple and peaceful life, one that enriched Ysmir's mind after the chaos of his early years. A life that, while boring compared to the trials he had endured these past few months, he enjoyed. But as a Dragonborn that life was at odds with the dragon soul and blood within him, part of him always yearned for the rush of battle, the allure of power, the desire to dominate. Controlling these temptations was the first and hardest lesson Ysmir was taught. A lesson that he had still not mastered.
The courtyard was large but modest, with only a few trees and decorative pillars scattered around. Several Greybeards sat in meditation just outside the large gate that Ysmir had used to learn Whirlwind Sprint when he first came to High Hrothgar. From where he was standing, Ysmir could see Master Arngeir meditating at the top of the tower across the yard. Ysmir took a deep breath, the cool mountain air filling his lungs, and was startled as someone suddenly called out to him.
"My friend! It is good to see you," a voice called out. Ysmir looked to see Inigo, his dark purple-furred Khajiit housecarl and best friend, walking up the stairs towards him. "How are you this morning?"
"I'm good Inigo," Ysmir replied, "a bit tired."
Inigo looked at Ysmir's sunken face and the dark bags under his eyes, "you look worse than tired my friend, another one of those dreams?" he asked.
"Nightmare more like," Ysmir said as he stretched his arms out and rubbed his puffy eyes, "and they're getting more and more vivid,"
Inigo scratched the fur on his chin and looked up to the tower, "hmm, perhaps it is time you brought up these 'nightmares' to Master Arngeir, oh—" Inigo plugged his ears with his hands, just as the thunderous clap of Master Arngeir's shout echoed across the mountain and out into the sky. Inigo continued, "He might know what afflicts you."
Ysmir sighed, "I think you're right, hopefully they mean nothing."
"Ha!" Inigo laughed, "with you, my friend, it is never 'nothing'."
Ysmir chuckled, as the thought of yet another adventure both excited and unnerved him, and walked away towards the tower, "unfortunately, you're always right Inigo."
Another booming Shout shook the tower as Ysmir climbed it, he steadied himself and waited for the shaking to stop before he continued up. He came to the roof of the tower, and saw Master Arngeir returning to his knees in meditation. It was disrespectful to interrupt a Greybeard in prayer, so Ysmir approached from behind and entered the same kneeling position just behind Master Arngeir, making his presence known but patiently waiting until the aged Greybeard was ready to address him.
After about 20 minutes, Master Arngeir spoke. "Dragonborn, I have the sense you did not come up this tower to pray with me," he said.
"No, Master Arngeir, I did not," Ysmir replied.
"I see, and how has your time been since you returned to us?" Master Arngeir asked, still kneeling down with his eyes closed.
Ysmir took a deep breath and exhaled out his nose. He looked out at the view from the tower, at the beautiful snow covered peaks of the Jerall Mountains. It was a serene view, a view he would never forget. It was relaxing to look at, but all he could feel was restlessness. A perfect summarization of his time at High Hrothgar. "It has been… a difficult time Master. I've had trouble adjusting to the peacefulness of life at the monastery," Ysmir eventually said.
"It is a significant change, to be sure." Arngeir agreed.
"I find myself always uneasy, always expecting something that never comes."
"The soul of a dragon burns within you. It is an inseparable part of who you are, but following the Way of the Voice you can learn to control your baser instincts."
Ysmir pondered those words for a few moments, he wished it was as easy as Master Arngeir made it sound. If he could simply follow the Way of the Voice, he would. He wanted to, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't. "I've been having a dream Master Arngeir, a dream that keeps coming back to me. Always the same, always disturbing."
Arngeir stood up and opened his eyes. Ysmir looked at him, and was surprised to see what seemed like sadness on Arngeir's face. "Come, Dragonborn, we will talk in the hall," he said as he walked past Ysmir. Ysmir quickly stood up and followed.
The pair made their way to the hall in silence. Arngeir sat down, and Ysmir poured two cups of water and joined him. "Thank you, tell me about this dream Dragonborn," Arngeir said as he took a sip out of the small wooden cup. And so Ysmir recounted the dream that he had been having. Arngeir sat across from him, listening, contemplating, his wrinkled face becoming noticeably more upset the more detail Ysmir went into. When Ysmir was done, Arngeir sat in silence. Silence between Greybeards was normal, but this silence, Ysmir could feel, was tense.
Finally, after far too long for Ysmir's liking, Arngeir spoke. "I feared this would happen," he began, "while we may want this life for you, while you might want this life for yourself, destiny does not." Ysmir was shocked, but he continued to listen. "I'm afraid, we cannot help you Dragonborn. Our knowledge and views are too limited to give you guidance on what comes next."
Arngeir stood up, and Ysmir did as well. Arngeir bowed, "It is always a sad day to lose a student, especially such a promising one. Dragonborn, Ysmir, you must speak to Master Paarthurnax about your dream. After that, I suspect, you'll be leaving High Hrothgar for good." Without another word, Arngeir turned and left. Ysmir stood in the hall, alone with his thoughts, worried about what was to come.