Chases-The-Wind
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A sulfuric reek blew on the wind. The western watchtower was in shambles, strewn with corpses of watchmen and dying fires. I eased my run and snuck behind a boulder out in the open grass fields. Stars began to shimmer faintly in the skies above. I could hear the beast plodding. It was not far. One last equipment check: my crossbow was loaded, my knife was at my belt, and Xehtasken lay in its sheath.
Releasing a long, smooth exhale, I slowed my breathing and evoked the mantra instilled to me as a hatching in my days of training.
“Tsarkk xhe nohn'daa,” I hissed. “Ophik tsaxeh'thu… Jiit ophik'thu.”
I was the predator. These tools were my fangs. The time had come to bare them. I feared no pain, nor death. And unless I perished in battle, the dragon would soon know terror.
Such was I, a monster to kill a monster.
Seconds dragged on for hours as I considered my attack. Crumbled segments of a curtain wall rung around the watchtower in a partial circle. It must have once been a larger fortress long ago. The rubble would provide ample concealment and elevation, assuming I could reach the tower at all. Blue light swirled and shimmered in my palm, spell at the ready. Wards would be my strongest defense. The dragon could not break them with its fire, so long as I held firm.
I chanced a peek from behind my boulder, only to throw myself back into cover.
A gale of flame blew against the stone, a blazing caress. It lashed over my head as I ducked to the ground. Sounds of methodical thumping harkened the dragon’s approach.
“Ruth ahzid hokoron!!” the monster bellowed, its voice deep and raucous. “Alone? You come here to your doom, Kendov. Ziil fent bolog fah aaz!”
There was no reaching the tower now. My adversary loomed, eager to settle the score.
We fight here. So be it.
I emerged in the open, bracing at the sight of the foul beast. Jagged spines ran the length of its back, undulating upon a hide of dull brown scales. Crooked horns jutted back from its reptilian face. I could see the torn, skin-like tissue of its injured wing, bleeding from severed veins. The dragon uttered its shout, flame bursting from breath.
Useless effort.
If this monster knows no other magic, it had already lost.
A ward flashed from my outstretched palm, obstructing the wyrm’s stream of fire. I could feel my magicka draining away. At most I could hold the shield for a few seconds. I began walking forward against the flames. As the dragon’s breath subsided, I dropped my spell and drew Xehtasken. Our eyes met.
There was a brief moment of apprehension. The monster wore a startled look, seeing in me some newfound threat.
“Niid… daar nis kos… Dovahkiin!?”
I charged to meet my foe, sword raised. The dragon lurched headlong to flex its jowl and snapped at me with clenching incisors. I read its motion with ease and jumped aside, lashing out my blade in an upward stroke. Its steel stained red. Flinching back, the dragon shifted the weight of its massive body and crooked its long neck to face me.
“YOL…”
Ward cast, I speared Xehtasken into the ground.
“…TOOR SHUL!!!”
As I fought against the fire, I could feel my fingers wrap around the wooden handle of my crossbow. The dragon expended the last of its flame. By now my magicka was well drained. It was time to redouble my offensive. I drew my weapon to aim and clasped the trigger. The breadth between us was small. I could not miss. My bolt punched through the dragon’s eye with sure precision. It gave a great bellow of pain.
I pulled Xehtasken from the dirt and dashed into a run, sliding beneath the dragon’s neck. The tip of my blade slashed into its scaly hide as I sprung to my feet and jumped away. A quick, shallow strike. With a blast of wind from its uninjured wing, the wyrm tried to knock me over. I staggered back, planting a boot behind me. It dug into soil as I stood against the force. No wonder such an immense creature could fly – the power behind its wings was daunting.
Yet I held my footing and stepped back into range. Xehtasken answered the call for blood.
Our fight drove on. At every chance, every opening, I struck the dragon with swift light blows, too nimble to catch. Its size and might meant nothing. A lone hackwing can tear even the throat of the great wamasu. Those thought feeble can shame the strong.
Wounded and battered, the dragon tried once more to clench me in its maw. I dodged and leapt upon the side of the monster’s face, feeling the soft wet flesh of its jaw beneath my foot as I kicked to climb atop its head. The wyrm thrashed about, trying to throw me off, snapping and snarling rabidly. There was desperation in its struggle. I gripped the horn on its skull with one hand, sword held in the other.
It threw its neck in one last upswing. I singled out a scale on the dragon’s brow and drew back, aiming the sharp point of Xehtasken to thrust. Needless devastation and slaughter had been wrought by this monster. I would reap its pay in full.
From my mouth came a cry of rage. Steel plunged into the dragon’s skull. It let out a deathly roar and slumped to the ground, no life left in its muscles.
All was still.
I stood breathless and fatigued over the body of a once proud creature. My adrenaline waned, bringing sore limbs. Irileth and her guardsmen were in sight along with the three Companions, approaching from the road. I jumped down and walked to greet them, raising a gore stained Xehtastken high over my head.
“It’s done!” I called out. “The dragon is finished! Whiterun is safe!”
I expected there to be some sort of fanfare in response. Instead the group came suddenly to a stop. They were pointing behind me with startled expressions. I spun around.
The wyrm’s corpse was burning, consumed by dazzling fire. Embers fluttered away in the breeze. Light from the flames stretched long shadows at my back.
“What in all the world…!?” I whispered.
There was a rush like wind. Bands of blinding color shot forth and came upon me. I gasped, doubling over as an intense shock brought me to my knees. The dragon’s life force surged through my body like a rapid river’s flow. Vigorous. Unhindered.
Memories bored into my mind. I glimpsed a vision of a Tamriel long since passed. In the skies of Keizaal – Skyrim – dragons soared, dozens of dozens, every shape and color imaginable. Their roars filled the air. I could see the sun and clouds brushing against jagged mountain peaks as I flew. Rolling plains, blue lakes, and lush forests streaked by in an oily blur.
I saw men dying in battle by the hundreds against the might of winged beasts shouting them down. They were weak. Amidst the scene of chaos, I heard a voice in thought that was not my own. It sounded familiar, deep and strident.
Du los hin nunon dez…
My mind and senses returned. It was over.
I looked upon the dragon’s body. It had been reduced to bones with nary a scale or strip of flesh. Kneeling in dirt and dry grass I lingered, mouth agape, unable to speak. The housecarl and her men drew near. I stood and looked to them. Astonished and confused mutterings rose among their ranks.
“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes…”
“…like out of the old tales…!”
“It can’t be! This lizard…!?”
I could not tell if the mood from these Nords had become reverent or abominating. Whatever the case, I was now a subject of great scrutiny. The Companions lingered further away, watching, speaking amongst themselves.
“What are you all talking about? What do you know of this?” I questioned, anxious and wide-eyed.
One of the guardsmen stepped forward to speak.
“You… you’re Dragonborn!”
I felt as though I’d heard that title before.
“Dragonborn?” I repeated.
“Yes! My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn,” he said, “those born with the dragon blood in ‘em, like old Tiber Septim himself! They slayed scores of dragons in their day!”
Tiber Septim? The man who founded the Empire?
“I’ve never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons,” one of the other guards scoffed.
“There weren’t any dragons back then, idiot,” another joined in. “They’re just coming back now for the first time in… forever!”
“But the old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could slay dragons and steal their power,” the first man insisted, pointing at me. “That’s what you did, isn’t it? You must be one!”
I wished I could somehow slink away from the sudden commotion. These Nords are making no sense… I did not steal the dragon’s power. Even if such a thing had transpired, it was not of my volition. It happened by its own accord.
Some of the men regarded the Jarl’s housecarl. She seemed lost in deep thought, admiring the wyrm’s skeleton.
“What do you say, Irileth? You’re being awfully quiet.”
“Come on Irileth! Tell us! Do you believe in this Dragonborn business?”
The woman turned to face the rabble of guards, a frown drawn on her face.
“Hmph. Some of you Nords would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums over matters you don’t know anything about,” she muttered.
Irileth strode up to the frame of bones.
“Here’s a dead dragon, and that’s something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don’t need some mythical Dragonborn,” the housecarl sniped, turning to this one. “Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me.”
I did not meet her gaze, averting mine to the road.
“You wouldn’t understand, housecarl,” one of the guards said. “You ain’t a Nord.”
The Dunmer gave an indignant huff. “I’ve been all across Tamriel! I’ve seen things just as outlandish as this.” She paused for a moment. “I’d advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends.”
The guardsmen murmured among each other indifferently. Once more, the man who first spoke out spoke again.
“If you really are Dragonborn, you ought to be able to Shout,” he said to me.
I blinked in confusion.
“…Shout?”
“Yes! Only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way the dragons do. Can you? Have you tried?”
“I… do not know,” I mumbled in bewilderment, growing irritated. “But…”
“Go ahead! There’s no harm in it. Just try!”
“Try what!?” I snapped. “Anyone can shout! It is not a skill one trains! I don’t understand what you–”
An inkling thought forced me to stop mid-sentence.
“Wait…”
I remembered the word imbued at Bleak Falls Barrow. It was no longer without meaning. I understood it. Somehow the knowledge had come to me from the dragon’s memories. The word meant ‘force.’ Raw power, a push without effort. Unrelenting.
This Nord speaks of shouting. The dragons shouted. The draugr had shouted. Is there nothing more behind this magic? Did I simply have to… open my mouth and speak? A part of me did not wish to try. There was a chance it might prove the man’s claim true.
But denial would bring me no answers.
I let the word come to focus in my mind, inhaling. It was no different than any other act of shouting. Yet something welled inside me, like pressure behind a bottle’s cork. My entire being seemed to lend itself to the act. The sensation came naturally, though its power was frightening. I almost tried to withdraw my breath, but like a dam bursting at its seams the word came free.
“FUS!!!”
There was a clapping sound like thunder. My voice became a hurling ring of magic. It pushed against the Nord, shoving him backwards. He tripped on a rock and fell clean on his back. The guards exclaimed their surprise.
“By the gods! What manner of power is that!?”
“He summons the Thu’um!”
I winced startlingly, hurrying to help the man I’d knocked over.
“Are you alright!?” I stammered. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t think that through…!”
The Nord was unharmed. If anything, he looked ecstatic.
“That was Shouting you just did! Must be! You really are Dragonborn, then!”
I stepped back, recoiling as though I had been bitten by a snake.
“No… that’s… no…!” I hissed in distraught, desperately trying to reason the meaning behind this. “There must be another explanation… I can’t be–”
A booming sound echoed from the distant mountains. Everyone looked to the Throat of the World, framed beneath a clear night of shining stars. A shout rang out across the province of Skyrim, louder than anything I had ever heard before.
The call was meant for my ears. By a pricking feeling beneath my scales, I knew.
“DO-VAH-KIIN!!!”
Falura
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Turdas, 21st of Last Seed 4E 201
I sat up at my desk, hearing a loud and thunderous voice. At first I thought it was the doing of a dragon. But I quickly dismissed the thought. The shout sounded unmistakably human.
Peering out of the door to my quarters, it appeared I was not the only one startled. The other mages and scholars of the college were all in a tizzy, talking amongst each other with fervor. I ignored the common herd and climbed a spiral staircase to the top of the study tower, stepping into the frozen gloom outside.
Yet another perplexing phenomenon. What did it mean? Was it connected to the dragon’s appearance? I reflected in solitude, staring off at the arctic vista. White snow shimmered below Nirn’s twin moons, Masser and Secunda. The mountains beyond were dark silhouettes against a starry sky.
It did not take a fool to see that something momentous was happening. I couldn’t fathom what fate had in store for the people of Tamriel. Our land is no stranger to crisis, and these events bode ill. Not merely for Skyrim, but for Cyrodiil, Morrowind…
The days to come would be a time of change for us all. I was sure of it.
Dar-Meena
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Everyone and their mother had woken up, crowding through Riften’s streets in the dead of night. We all heard it – the shout that came from the mountains. The one calling ‘Dovahkiin.’
Damned if I knew what it meant, but people were sure spooked. I’d never seen an entire city jump on its feet for something. Whatever was happening, it was big. Nords mumbled to one another in hushed tones, tossing familiar names and stories they’d heard as children.
A priestess of Talos started zealously proclaiming ‘the return of the Dragonborn.’ Was she talking about the Septim emperors? I thought their blood line ended with the death of Martin. Besides old Tiber, he was the only other Dragonborn I knew of. I’d visited his memorial in the Imperial City years ago, at the Temple of the One. The attendant there wouldn’t shut up about him.
It’s not like people in Cyrodiil don’t know who Martin Septim is. He was a hero. He ended the Oblivion Crisis, stopped Mehrunes Dagon from destroying the world at the end of the third era.
I left Riften to its uproar and went back to bed. I wasn’t about to make a fuss like everyone else. That call had nothing to do with me.
Reinhardt
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I couldn’t believe my ears! It didn’t seem real! I’d heard the stories, but I never thought I’d one day live in the midst of them…
The Greybeards. They were summoning a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar, for the first time in centuries! Not since Talos himself! It was history in the making! That night of drinks in Riverwood became one I’d never forget.
Someplace, somewhere, stood a man whose veins coursed with the blood of dragons.
I thought of the beast that burned down Helgen. If it had no reason to be afraid before, it did now. Skyrim was about to change forever. Men who bear the title ‘Dragonborn’ conquer nations and topple the armies of Daedric Princes! Songs and legends retell their deeds generation after generation!
There was only one question now.
Who? Who among us held such honor and power?
Who could the Dragonborn possibly be?
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Comments
All the guards in every city mention it. I thought it'd be a fun thing to explore, since we as the player don't get to see people's reactions.