So, Skyrim. I'm trying to do it justice, because there's so much that it deserves, but so little people do for it. The concept of the Dragonborn is so great; it's not just a miscellaneous set of powers someone gets - it's dragon-killer in your blood.
"We are coming on it now."
Skyrim, shining under golden rays, stretched in vast plains all around. In the midst of them stood Whiterun's western watchtower, site of a recent dragon sighting. Irileth, the Dark Elf serving as the Jarl's right hand, led the team tasked with killing it.
"Look at it, it's completely destroyed..." One guard muttered. The watchtower used to stand tall and powerful on the road leading to southern Skyrim's crown jewel, but it turned out to be nothing next to a dragon's might. A half-dozen of Whiterun's guard did not feel any more up to it than the garrison that had left behind a smoking, burning ruin.
With Helgen so fresh in their minds, the guards began to falter.
Irileth would not show her fear, but the one amongst them who was not a native of Whiterun could feel it. "Do not be intimidated. It called us to this place, for it seeks battle. If you falter, it will only slaughter you without a second thought. Give it a good fight, and it will prolong it so we have a chance."
Perhaps letting the survivor of Helgen, a large Imperial outpost held by some of the most crack troops the Empire had to offer, speak was not the best morale-booster. A dragon had mercilessly slaughtered Helgen to a man. Neither arrows, flame, nor lightning could slow that dark beast's onslaught.
The Nord garbed in heavy iron armor with horns on his helm may be emboldened by his words, but no one knew exactly what to expect.
"If we do not stop it, it will move on to Whiterun. We must stand and fight here!" Irileth's haughtiness served her well, picking up after the foreigner to her party. That got the troopers' attention: keep Whiterun safe. Keep Olga and Masha safe, and every man's wife and daughter. Protect. Do their duty.
They marched on.
The western watchtower burned. The scent of charred flesh hung in the air, unperturbed by the breeze, and heat emanated from the burning husk of a fortress. The party of eight regrouped behind a boulder, the foreigner and Dark Elf taking the lead. Irileth spoke to her men as the foreign Nord watched the ruins ahead.
A young man in guards' armor peeked out of the tower and called out to them. He said the dragon could still be around, and may sweep down and eat whomever strayed from the rocks or tower. The Nord didn't pay him much mind, looking around for the beast.
A roar came from the distance, quiet at first, but it set his blood boiling. His world tilted on its axis, and the small figure in the sky to the south became the clearest, most detailed thing he had ever seen.
The foreigner stood from his crouch, unsheathing his sword as he stepped towards the flying dragon. His hand crackled with lightning as he prepared to make battle with the dragon. The dragon roared, and he responded defiantly.
"Toor-SHUL!" Irileth and her party had run to the tower, and this insignificant human stood alone on the plains. The dragon focused on him, but he dodged, rolling away from the great gout of flame that erupted upon the ground. Lightning flashed, splashing against the flying beast's flank.
A Whiterun guard screamed, falling to the ground in front of the tower's stairs in terror. Irileth grabbed the back of his armor and dragged him up the stairs, shouting orders to her soldiers. "Take cover, don't let it get you with its flames! Use your bows, make every arrow count!"
The dragon flew around the tower in response, its great wings buffeting the guards inside. Arrows shot towards it, some piercing its scales. With another roar, it breathed fire into nearby openings of the tower.
Meanwhile, the Nord ran up the tower's winding stairs, shooting lightning from his fingertips when the dragon passed. He reached the top, with only the sky above him, and felt a heavy compulsion.
He shouted. "Dragon! Come to me!"
A gravelly laugh rose from beneath his feet and his opponent rose, leathery wings buffeting him with wind. The great beast perched upon the edge of the watchtower, claws tearing through masonry as if it were warm butter. When the dragon opened its mouth, steam seeped out along with a voice that sounded like an avalanche speeding down a mountainside.
"You are brave. Balaan hokoron. Your defeat brings me honor! Yol-Toor-SHUL!" Steam gave way to flames. The Nord dodged to the side, the flames following and licking at his heels. They subsided when a flash of thunder snapped the dragon's head back.
It laughed, despite its charred snout. "Hah! Brit grah! Beautiful battle, mortal! I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide! Remember my name, Mirmulnir! The one who snuffed out your wretched existence!" The dragon's title, part of an alien tongue, rung with power, a power that made the Nord's blood sing.
A name, albeit just a name, filled his being overwhelmingly, and his world finished tilting until it was surely upside down. He followed his blood's pleas, feeling a strange power build within him.
He Shouted. "Mir-mul-NIR!"
A shockwave staggered the dragon, whose beady eyes widened. The Nord immediately sprung forward, leaping towards it. Lightning flashed mid-leap, and the dragon's head was knocked back with a painful roar as lightning destroyed its eye. A gleaming sword of steel and a charging Nord's weight further tipped back the dragon as the Nord stabbed it through Mirmulnir's snout.
It roared in muffled pain and rage, flapping its wings and flailing its limbs uselessly. A blade pinned its jaw closed, causing draconic blood, which steamed in the cold Skyrim air, to spurt upon the iron-garbed human.
The man roared back, for he was more than just a man, and pulled the sword out. One hand grasping the dragon's hard, sharp scales, he pulled and drove his sword into the dragon once more as they plummeted from the sky.
In a storm of rage and power, Mirmulnir crashed against the plains of Skyrim, a human dominant against the dragon's majesty for the first time in its long life. It knew why.
"Dovahkiin! No..." It managed to cry, before the Nord used their fall's momentum and his monstrous strength to drive his sword through Mirmulnir's remaining eye.
Then there was only silence. The dragon's limbs twitched uselessly, blood caustically responding to the cold oxygenated air of Skyrim's wilderness, pouring from its wounds liberally. The dragon died without further ado.
Man had slain Beast.
Whiterun's guards, without casualties, streamed out of the watchtower, in awe of what they had witnessed.
"By the Gods... he really did it."
Irileth nodded in begrudged respect. "Very good, Nord. This means-" She was interrupted by the dragon's body beginning to move once more. "Prepare yourselves!" She barked, readying her sword for battle.
The foreigner, the Dragon-slayer, did not. He only stared down at the dragon – Mirmulnir – as its body began to twitch and burn hotter and hotter. Fire rose from its scales and they wilted away, revealing its skeleton. A radiance rose from its core, rising up to the sky as it burned.
Then the light arched to him, and he was barraged with a torrent of ethereal flame. He fell to one knee, eyes focused on the dying dragon's remains, and roared in challenge, raising his body against the light.
A word, familiar to his brain and to his heart, rose in his being, and he Shouted once more in defiance of the light. "FUS!"
A great Power was projected from his very throat and the lights scattered, as if afraid of his strength.
The guards were, too.
"The Thu'um! He can use the Thu'um!"
"That was... a Shout! I can't believe it... you're... Dragonborn!" One approached him, awe in his eyes.
"Dragonborn?" He questioned. His voice was rough, overused, as if that shout was something not meant for the human body.
"In the very oldest tales, when dragons still existed in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would kill dragons and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?"
"Mirmulnir," he murmured, but the guard who was speaking to him still staggered from the power in the words. "That was his name."
The guard shook his head in amazement. "My grandfather used to tell me stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with dragon blood in them – like Tiber Septim himself."
"I never heard about Tiber Septim killing any dragons." Another guard slapped this one on the back of the head for that.
"That's because there weren't any dragons back then, you idiot!"
The Nord was still staring at his opponent's skeletal remains as they bantered.
Dragonborn... that was a good name. He had wandered nameless, without a home or cause, the wandering Nord holding many names that meant nothing, because his given one had been lost... but Dragonborn, he could use that title, and make it his for it came from his blood itself.
He stood still as the guards and Irileth regrouped – Irileth apathetic about his newfound status, at best – and then set out with them towards Whiterun.
"I can't believe it... the Dragonborn..." One guard still marveled. It wasn't a conscious decision, but even the haughty Dark Elf housecarl stayed back. The Nord, a foreigner to them, but doubtlessly the most powerful, led their party back towards Whiterun.
Suddenly, as the walls of central Skyrim's metropolis began to loom over them, he paused and turned his eyes towards the tallest mountain of the land. The Thorat of the World was shaking, a tangible shockwave racing down its walls. Combined with an ever-growing avalanche, it tore through the landscape, racing inexorably down and forward... then towards them.
The land and heavens shook. "DO-VAH-KIIN!"
Awe and terror.
"The greybeards' call, like the legends say!"
Awe and terror. Was this what life would be from now on?
In a way, the newly-dubbed Dragonborn didn't mind. Just as Tiber Septim had been... so wouldn't that mean he was of royal blood?
As a Dragonborn, Jarl Ulfric and the Empire's civil war aside... wasn't he the born king of Skyrim and all men?
"We are coming on it now."
Skyrim, shining under golden rays, stretched in vast plains all around. In the midst of them stood Whiterun's western watchtower, site of a recent dragon sighting. Irileth, the Dark Elf serving as the Jarl's right hand, led the team tasked with killing it.
"Look at it, it's completely destroyed..." One guard muttered. The watchtower used to stand tall and powerful on the road leading to southern Skyrim's crown jewel, but it turned out to be nothing next to a dragon's might. A half-dozen of Whiterun's guard did not feel any more up to it than the garrison that had left behind a smoking, burning ruin.
With Helgen so fresh in their minds, the guards began to falter.
Irileth would not show her fear, but the one amongst them who was not a native of Whiterun could feel it. "Do not be intimidated. It called us to this place, for it seeks battle. If you falter, it will only slaughter you without a second thought. Give it a good fight, and it will prolong it so we have a chance."
Perhaps letting the survivor of Helgen, a large Imperial outpost held by some of the most crack troops the Empire had to offer, speak was not the best morale-booster. A dragon had mercilessly slaughtered Helgen to a man. Neither arrows, flame, nor lightning could slow that dark beast's onslaught.
The Nord garbed in heavy iron armor with horns on his helm may be emboldened by his words, but no one knew exactly what to expect.
"If we do not stop it, it will move on to Whiterun. We must stand and fight here!" Irileth's haughtiness served her well, picking up after the foreigner to her party. That got the troopers' attention: keep Whiterun safe. Keep Olga and Masha safe, and every man's wife and daughter. Protect. Do their duty.
They marched on.
The western watchtower burned. The scent of charred flesh hung in the air, unperturbed by the breeze, and heat emanated from the burning husk of a fortress. The party of eight regrouped behind a boulder, the foreigner and Dark Elf taking the lead. Irileth spoke to her men as the foreign Nord watched the ruins ahead.
A young man in guards' armor peeked out of the tower and called out to them. He said the dragon could still be around, and may sweep down and eat whomever strayed from the rocks or tower. The Nord didn't pay him much mind, looking around for the beast.
A roar came from the distance, quiet at first, but it set his blood boiling. His world tilted on its axis, and the small figure in the sky to the south became the clearest, most detailed thing he had ever seen.
The foreigner stood from his crouch, unsheathing his sword as he stepped towards the flying dragon. His hand crackled with lightning as he prepared to make battle with the dragon. The dragon roared, and he responded defiantly.
"Toor-SHUL!" Irileth and her party had run to the tower, and this insignificant human stood alone on the plains. The dragon focused on him, but he dodged, rolling away from the great gout of flame that erupted upon the ground. Lightning flashed, splashing against the flying beast's flank.
A Whiterun guard screamed, falling to the ground in front of the tower's stairs in terror. Irileth grabbed the back of his armor and dragged him up the stairs, shouting orders to her soldiers. "Take cover, don't let it get you with its flames! Use your bows, make every arrow count!"
The dragon flew around the tower in response, its great wings buffeting the guards inside. Arrows shot towards it, some piercing its scales. With another roar, it breathed fire into nearby openings of the tower.
Meanwhile, the Nord ran up the tower's winding stairs, shooting lightning from his fingertips when the dragon passed. He reached the top, with only the sky above him, and felt a heavy compulsion.
He shouted. "Dragon! Come to me!"
A gravelly laugh rose from beneath his feet and his opponent rose, leathery wings buffeting him with wind. The great beast perched upon the edge of the watchtower, claws tearing through masonry as if it were warm butter. When the dragon opened its mouth, steam seeped out along with a voice that sounded like an avalanche speeding down a mountainside.
"You are brave. Balaan hokoron. Your defeat brings me honor! Yol-Toor-SHUL!" Steam gave way to flames. The Nord dodged to the side, the flames following and licking at his heels. They subsided when a flash of thunder snapped the dragon's head back.
It laughed, despite its charred snout. "Hah! Brit grah! Beautiful battle, mortal! I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide! Remember my name, Mirmulnir! The one who snuffed out your wretched existence!" The dragon's title, part of an alien tongue, rung with power, a power that made the Nord's blood sing.
A name, albeit just a name, filled his being overwhelmingly, and his world finished tilting until it was surely upside down. He followed his blood's pleas, feeling a strange power build within him.
He Shouted. "Mir-mul-NIR!"
A shockwave staggered the dragon, whose beady eyes widened. The Nord immediately sprung forward, leaping towards it. Lightning flashed mid-leap, and the dragon's head was knocked back with a painful roar as lightning destroyed its eye. A gleaming sword of steel and a charging Nord's weight further tipped back the dragon as the Nord stabbed it through Mirmulnir's snout.
It roared in muffled pain and rage, flapping its wings and flailing its limbs uselessly. A blade pinned its jaw closed, causing draconic blood, which steamed in the cold Skyrim air, to spurt upon the iron-garbed human.
The man roared back, for he was more than just a man, and pulled the sword out. One hand grasping the dragon's hard, sharp scales, he pulled and drove his sword into the dragon once more as they plummeted from the sky.
In a storm of rage and power, Mirmulnir crashed against the plains of Skyrim, a human dominant against the dragon's majesty for the first time in its long life. It knew why.
"Dovahkiin! No..." It managed to cry, before the Nord used their fall's momentum and his monstrous strength to drive his sword through Mirmulnir's remaining eye.
Then there was only silence. The dragon's limbs twitched uselessly, blood caustically responding to the cold oxygenated air of Skyrim's wilderness, pouring from its wounds liberally. The dragon died without further ado.
Man had slain Beast.
Whiterun's guards, without casualties, streamed out of the watchtower, in awe of what they had witnessed.
"By the Gods... he really did it."
Irileth nodded in begrudged respect. "Very good, Nord. This means-" She was interrupted by the dragon's body beginning to move once more. "Prepare yourselves!" She barked, readying her sword for battle.
The foreigner, the Dragon-slayer, did not. He only stared down at the dragon – Mirmulnir – as its body began to twitch and burn hotter and hotter. Fire rose from its scales and they wilted away, revealing its skeleton. A radiance rose from its core, rising up to the sky as it burned.
Then the light arched to him, and he was barraged with a torrent of ethereal flame. He fell to one knee, eyes focused on the dying dragon's remains, and roared in challenge, raising his body against the light.
A word, familiar to his brain and to his heart, rose in his being, and he Shouted once more in defiance of the light. "FUS!"
A great Power was projected from his very throat and the lights scattered, as if afraid of his strength.
The guards were, too.
"The Thu'um! He can use the Thu'um!"
"That was... a Shout! I can't believe it... you're... Dragonborn!" One approached him, awe in his eyes.
"Dragonborn?" He questioned. His voice was rough, overused, as if that shout was something not meant for the human body.
"In the very oldest tales, when dragons still existed in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would kill dragons and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?"
"Mirmulnir," he murmured, but the guard who was speaking to him still staggered from the power in the words. "That was his name."
The guard shook his head in amazement. "My grandfather used to tell me stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with dragon blood in them – like Tiber Septim himself."
"I never heard about Tiber Septim killing any dragons." Another guard slapped this one on the back of the head for that.
"That's because there weren't any dragons back then, you idiot!"
The Nord was still staring at his opponent's skeletal remains as they bantered.
Dragonborn... that was a good name. He had wandered nameless, without a home or cause, the wandering Nord holding many names that meant nothing, because his given one had been lost... but Dragonborn, he could use that title, and make it his for it came from his blood itself.
He stood still as the guards and Irileth regrouped – Irileth apathetic about his newfound status, at best – and then set out with them towards Whiterun.
"I can't believe it... the Dragonborn..." One guard still marveled. It wasn't a conscious decision, but even the haughty Dark Elf housecarl stayed back. The Nord, a foreigner to them, but doubtlessly the most powerful, led their party back towards Whiterun.
Suddenly, as the walls of central Skyrim's metropolis began to loom over them, he paused and turned his eyes towards the tallest mountain of the land. The Thorat of the World was shaking, a tangible shockwave racing down its walls. Combined with an ever-growing avalanche, it tore through the landscape, racing inexorably down and forward... then towards them.
The land and heavens shook. "DO-VAH-KIIN!"
Awe and terror.
"The greybeards' call, like the legends say!"
Awe and terror. Was this what life would be from now on?
In a way, the newly-dubbed Dragonborn didn't mind. Just as Tiber Septim had been... so wouldn't that mean he was of royal blood?
As a Dragonborn, Jarl Ulfric and the Empire's civil war aside... wasn't he the born king of Skyrim and all men?