Hey Friends! So, I've always been a fan of Skyrim and have played countless hours of it with multiple characters, but this time I thought maybe I'd actually write/post some stuff. ;)

Brand is one of my actual characters. I made him specifically to marry Borgakh because ever since I found her with my first Dragonborn (who was, unfortunately, already married at the time), I wanted to have one of my characters travel with and marry her. Having him be a wood-elf just made it amusing because of their size difference. That and also the fact that I decided from the get go that Brand was going to be my sarcastic, devil-may-care Dragonborn (which is pretty opposite of most of the Orcs' personalities.) And so, as a result, I've decided to write out their adventures.

Except for the first few chapters which kind of establish Brand and Borgakh's relationship, this story is going to be mostly episodic in nature. Some chapters are based off of actual things that happened to me while playing Skyrim and you'll probably recognize some of the lines of dialogue. Other chapters will just be me spitballing with my two lovebirds ;)

I don't really have a specific plan or update schedule for this story. It's just going to happen as it happens.

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter One: This is Only the Beginning

Borgakh

It's strange that we let him in at all. But then again, he did kill a dragon right outside the gates of Mor Kazghur and he was injured. The least we can do is help. They bring him into the chief's house, which is where I first see him. He's dwarfed between my mother and Shuftharz, who each have an arm under his. He's so covered in blood and gore, that at first, I'm not even sure he's alive, but then I see the flash of his eyes and teeth in his bloody face - bright and fierce.

I watch from the wings, as expected of the chief's daughter, until summoned. The chief handles matters of foreign policy and outsiders, not his wives, and certainly not his children. It is the way of things in the stronghold.

At first, I think the newcomer is in trouble, the way my mother and Shuftharz drag him in, but then I realize he can't stand on his own. What I don't understand is why they brought him into the longhouse of all places? He isn't an orc. If his pointy ears and pale flesh aren't enough to prove that, his short stature certainly is. The only orcish thing about him is the rust-red mohawk running down the middle of his scalp. He's a wood-elf, barely larger than a half-grown orsimer. In fact, Shuftharz stoops as she walks beside him, so that she won't lift the poor elf off his feet entirely.

They lay him on the ground in front of my father. The elf tries to prop himself up on one elbow, then falls back with a grimace.

"Who is this?" my father asks, looking down at the elf like he might look at his next meal.

"I believe he is the one the Nords call Dragonborn," Mother answers.

From the floor, the elf lifts a hand in greeting.

"You? The Dragonborn?" Father tilts his head. I know what he's thinking. This bloody elf hardly looks like a Nord hero.

The elf coughs, a trickle of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth, but he nods.

"You do not look like much," Father says.

To my surprise, the elf laughs. "I look like...even less when I'm not covered in blood and dragon guts."

From where I stand at the bedroom door, I raise an eyebrow. No one has ever been that flippant with my father.

My father's brows draw down into a frown, but then he throws back his head and laughs too. "I hear you slayed a dragon outside my gates."

The elf nods again.

"That's very valiant of you, hero."

The elf shrugs. "Lucky might be...a better word for it." Then he clasps a hand to his side and groans, clenching his teeth. My father looks at his gathered entourage, all business again.

"Bargak, summon Sharamph. Shuftharz, get this man to a bed. Borgakh!"

"Yes, Father?" I step into the main room.

"Water, bandages, and whatever else Sharamph needs."

I follow Mother out of the longhouse to find the wise-woman and see what I can do to help.

"You're new."

I turn to see the elf watching me from his bed with a lop-sided smile.

"New?" I set the tray of food I'm carrying on the table beside his bed. Orc longhouses aren't really built for privacy. After all, clan is family, so my mother hung a few skins around one of the corner beds to give our guest a little peace and quiet. He has a bed and table and a small wash basin in the little space.

"Sure. You look less grumpy than Bargak, anyway, or Sharamph."

I smirk. For an elf, his orcish pronunciation is pretty good. He even gets the guttural grunt in on his g's. "Bargak is my mother, you know."

The elf tilts his head, studying me, but he doesn't seem embarrassed by his earlier comment. Instead he smiles. "I can see the family resemblance." He holds his fingers up by his mouth, as if imitating tusks.

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you always this irreverent?"

"Only when I'm so full of healing potions and orcish rotgut that I can't think straight." He flashes another smile. I hold back a smile of my own. Even when he's being flippant, it's hard to be angry around the elf. Now that he's had a day's rest and isn't covered in blood and dragon guts, he's charming. For a bosmer, that is.

"Rotgut?" I ask as I cut up the mammoth steak I prepared.

"Well, I don't know the proper name for that swill your healer pours down my throat. Seems to be helping, but it tastes terrible."

I laugh. "You're just not used to our ways, elf. We orcs live closer to the land than most."

"Closer than the elves?" He doesn't sound offended, just curious.

I don't know how to answer that. I realize I don't actually know very much about how elves live. After all, I've never left the stronghold, and won't until I come of age and marry the chief of another clan.

Instead, I hand the elf his tray of food, glad that he's well enough to feed himself and I don't have to sit by him and spoon-feed him. He sits up a little straighter and the blankets fall, revealing a well-muscled torso. Bandages cover his stomach and one shoulder and there are scars across his chest and back. Some look like claw-marks, others look as if they came from a blade. He picks at the food with his fingers, taking some of the bread and vegetables from the tray, but mostly leaving the meat untouched.

"You do not eat meat?" It comes out sounding like an accusation. I put extra attention into preparing his steak and I think it turned out well.

He looks up at me with an expression of surprise. "I do," he says. That grin is back again. "Sometimes."

I scowl and cross my arms.

"Am I annoying you?" He looks concerned this time.

"No. Of course not." My tone is more irritated than I'd like. An orc should not let an elf get under her skin. I don't know why I'm so flustered. The elf is tiny. I could crush him like a twig, especially with his injuries. He is no threat.

"You don't have to watch me eat, you know, if you've got other things to do. I won't choke," he says.

I don't have a response to that. Because he's offering me an out and I know it. But he's right. I was only sent to deliver his meal. I don't have to stand around and watch him eat it. All I have to do is come back for the dishes when he's done. I turn abruptly and walk away so I don't have to look at those strangely amber eyes.

I make up an excuse and ask Sharamph to collect his tray when she goes to give him his medicine later in the evening.

But I can't get his crooked grin and flashing eyes out of my head.

I realize as I drop into bed that night that I do not know the elf's name.

Why should I care?

Who is he to me?