In the beginning there was the Void, where then entered the primordial forces Order and Chaos . From these came the divine spirits, the Aedra favoring order, and the Daedra favoring, in turn, Chaos. At great cost to the Aedra, the mortal realm of Mundus was created. Center of this realm is the world Nirn, on which Tamriel, the great continent, sits. From this land many races were birthed, notably the Mer, Elves, direct descendants from the Aedra, Men, made from the land itself, the beast races, Khajiit, the cat people of Elsweyr and Argonians, the lizard people of Black Marsh. As is the way, for thousands of years empires and kingdoms alike rose and fell, people who were one, divided and became many. Leaders ruled through greatness, sadness and sacrifice. There now sits a crumbling empire, and from its weakness arises the Aldmeri Dominion, believing it is their birthright, they seek to dominate all of Tamriel. But paltry are the ambitions of mortals under the light of infinity.

Birth of the Dragon Elves

By Brii’Se’Brom

Grand Archivist

Greymoor Academy

An account of the events preceding the creation of the Dovah’Fahliil

Year 837 of the Fifth Era

As with every Dov’Fahliil, I am blessed with the sight of my end as it nears. With the end of my life on Nirn I will join with Drog’Bormah, as every one of us has and will. Before I begin that glorious journey, I will leave one last gift to my people - my account of the events that lead to what we have come to call, Dinok’Se’Wuth’Laas, Death of the Old life. The result of the efforts put forth by Ruvaak’Se’Brom the first Dragon Lord, and my father. I hope that through this account my people will remember their connection and responsibility to this land and those that reside here.

Before the Dinok, I was known as Sofie, a streetrat of the city Windhelm in the province of Skyrim. When my father adopted me, it was the first year of true happiness I had ever experienced. I had a home, a family, a life. I knew many things about my father, that he was the last Dragonborn, a Legate in the Imperial Army, the Archmage of the College of Winterhold, and a Thane of the Nine Holds, none of which mattered in the face of the fact that I knew he would do anything and everything to give me a future. It is that tenet that would drive him to change the world as we knew it.

Prologue:

The long Midnight

Before my eyes even open I can feel the air rushing past my face, cooling the sweat dripping down my forehead, all the muscles in my back and stomach tensing as they lift me up in all their aching glory. For an agonizing moment there is nothing beyond the rush of blood pounding in my ears. I come back to my surroundings, disoriented, clutching the bedding and furs about me. My eyes begin to take in the surroundings, a sea of forms lit dimly by the sky outside.

Relaxing the best I can, I slowly swing my legs off of the much too comfortable bed. I sit elbows to knees, holding my face in my hands, trying to calm and center myself. To clear the ache that the sudden action has bedded in my bones, feeling the cool air dry the sweat slithering down my back. With that, the brain rattling between my ears comes alive, and I turn to look at the women in my bed, Sylgia and Borgakh, two of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met.

The thick blankets and furs used to keep out the winter chill obscures most of them from view, but I’m able to see they sleep soundly. I have not woken them this night, and I fear it is because they have gotten used to my frequent night terrors. I just can’t get used to a soft bed.

I’ve grown used to uncomfortable circumstances; stone floors, and lice infested bedrolls invariably placed where a cursed stone digs into your side. I have slept soundly in all these places, always with the threat of death delivered by a knife in the dark from some traveling bandit, or the jaws of a wandering spider. But give me a large house, companions, one wonderful child, a warm bed with two beautiful women who love me, and I can’t get through the night.

I get frustrated at the ludicrousness of it all.

I spent thousands of gold septims and a month of my time building a house for my friends and family, trying to make a home, safe from the evils of the land, and I can’t sleep in the damn thing without waking in a cold sweat. Combing my hands through my long hair, I stand and leave my two companions to their dreams.

With skill speaking of years of practice, the soft sound of my feet hitting the floorboards dies in the air, keeping the sound of my movements to myself. The room is filled with the dim blue and red of northern lights blazing through the night sky outside, seeping through the animal skin panes of the windows to caress the clean cut and newly sanded planks of the floor and walls. The dull surface of the iron fittings don’t hold the light, creating black spots in my vision. A sea of forms that I navigate with ease. Dark wood dressers and shelves, dotted with books, candles and other frippery, telling more of Syl’s touch than my own

Deep green draqes and fabrics dot the place. The unexpected memory of joking to Sylgia, as she had the fabric delivered in great boxes, that the forests had invaded, flits through my mind. That had earned me a ‘soft’ punch to the temple by Bor, her subtle way of telling me not to pick on Syl. As I walk out the bedroom, I run my hands across the lentil of the master bedroom door. I can’t hold back my pride at the skill my companions and I had shown in making this place.

As I enter the main room, hues of blue, red and purple come in from the cold night and light up my surroundings. I pass the display case holding my twin swords and the mannequin displaying my Imperial Legate armor. It had been my one request when the women were furnishing the place with the trappings of the home.

Display cases and the mannequins were an extravagance, but I was a nostalgic sort, and no one had ever accused me of not being proud of my accomplishments. I’m the Archmage of the College of Winterhold, Harbinger of the Companions, Thane of the Nine Holds of Skyrim, and Executioner of the Bear.

Ulfric. The thought of him brings an old anger. The Bear of Markarth, leader of the Stormcloak rebellion, may Tsun damn and blast him for his arrogance.

Sighing, I paused at my daughter’s door, watching the wonderful little monster sleep. Sofie, child of the streets waiting for the tight grip of death in the cold, now sleeping in the best bed money could buy.

Windhelm had been in a bad way after the success of the Imperial assault. Buildings and lives had been lost in the melee, and Ulfric’s head had rolled to a stop at the base of his former ‘throne.’ I couldn’t take any satisfaction away from it. Even after Tullius’s inspiring speech, I had felt a melancholy fall over me, walking between the fires and ruins of the improvised barricades. I had understood that there weren’t any winners in war, but it wasn’t until I saw a Dunmer civilian crushed under fallen rubble that I felt it in my bones.

I’d found Sofie huddled in some broken boxes and barrels. I had seen her before on my last visit to Windhelm, delivering that damnable axe Balgruuf had sent. Leaving the meeting with a bad taste in my mouth, angered by Ulfric’s blatant disrespect, I had spotted a small red-headed girl, mud caking her ragged dress, thin and dirty, trying to selling flowers to people who didn’t care. Thin and dirty, mud caking her ragged dress, trying to sell flowers to people who didn’t care. Observing her from afar I had seen steel in her heart, approaching without any meek desperation of many of the downtrodden, facing the derision of those she solicited. By the time she reached me I already had two gold pieces in my hand, ready to give her without expectation.

After much vehement arguing, however, I realized that she wasn’t going to accept charity, and if I didn’t take a damn flower she wasn’t going to take the Septims. So I took the sad looking mountain flower and gave her enough to feed her for a week. With a crooked smile and a firm pat on the head, I left her to her life. I remember Borgakh, clad in Imperial armor, looking at me with the slight quirk in her brow at the flower in my hand. Tucking it into my cuirass, I had left the city to face my future, secure in the knowledge that I couldn’t do anything for the small girl, my life being as dangerous and wandering as it is.

But that was before the war had come to Windhelm’s door.

When I saw Sofie next, huddled in the rubble, holding her hands over her ears, eyes shut tight, I couldn’t help but remember being in the same place many years ago, trying to keep my mother’s screams from my mind. With the heavy thought guiding me, I was in front of her without realizing it, scooping her up in my tired and bruised arms. Out of instinct, she began to keen and struggle.

I merely held her tight and told her I was there, and that it would be okay. After a moment she collapsed into my shoulder, sobbing her little heart out, and for what could have a moment, or several hours, I stood there among the fires and the dead, holding her, frail, shivering form, telling her over and over again that everything was going to be alright. After Sofie’s tears had dried, she looked me bold face in the eyes, and without hesitation I said it one last time: ‘everything will be alright.’ I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just sworn an oath I would go to Oblivion and back to keep. After that, Bor and I left the city, Sofie’s arms in a stranglehold wrapped around my neck.

That was a year ago.

Sighing, I push away from her room, secure that she’ll sleep through the night even with Skyrim’s dancing lights going on outside. Turning, I make my way down the stairs, running my hand through the long strands of hair I keep at the top of my head, the stubble of the shaved sides prickling my palm. I spark a flame in my hand, lighting my path, the first trick of magic I learned from my mother. The light glints off the mounted heads of animals, books stuffing the shelves, weapons and armor displayed with pride, all the remains of the adventurous life I’ve lead. But I see none of it; all I see is the flame in my hand as I make my way to the long table in the middle of dining hall.

I don’t hear the snores of my companions, the friends who have become family, in the downstairs bedrooms, nor do I hear the wind whistling along the hills surrounding the house. All I see is the flame in my hand. And from the flame my mother’s face dancing in the light as she shows me for the first time to focus my will and light the tinder of the small hut fireplace. Inevitably, the memory of leads to the night the only home I knew burned. So cold, seated in the snow, hiding from the Thalmor surrounding the house, watching as my mother burned alive inside. She kept screaming, and I just begged and begged for her to stop, and when she did…

Clenching my eyes, I snuff the flame out. So many memories I’ve tried to surround myself with, hoping to keep the others at bay, but even with all the trophies and accomplishments, it didn’t matter. They’re still there, waiting for me in the quiet moments. And if it wasn’t for my family, I might have gladly succumbed to the dozen doors of darkness presented to me.

As quick as dragon’s blink, my sorrow turns to rage. Sorrow was for the weak, sick or dying. Sorrow was for the soldier who died of old age and would never please Malacath with their glorious death. I had learned this over and over again. Looking at my pink skinned hands, I remember how they would bruise and bloody fighting everyone.

I am of the Orsimer, with the ears, eyes, and teeth of one, but the mouth, skin, and nose of the Nord mother that birthed me. Every day, from the age of five onward, was a fight because of this. For years on end, I had been mashing bone and organ, because if you didn’t, then it would be yours receiving the treatment.

Getting my face pushed in by some Orc who thought it was fun to bruise the pink halfbreed, fighting dogs for food because I didn’t belong in the stronghold--there was no sympathy for sorrow there, no comfort for the ones who whined and cried out. Larak, my second father and chief of Mor Kazghur, would beat me black and blue if he saw me now, wallowing in my emotional filth.

With a frustrated growl, I get up, and the indignance of my own stupidity strikes me. I’ve had enough of this kak! I am Ruvaak Wolf-Born, Black Dragon of the North, SosSeBrom to the dragons, slayer of the-

The wooden floor underneath my feet and a cold chill in the air remind me that I’m only wearing my small clothes. I deflate, and I chuckle, shaking my head; I deserve all of those punches from Bor sometimes.

“Good morning, laddie!”

“Molauch’s Balls!” I had turned to go to bed only to have the blank whited eyes of the Prince of Madness facing me. There is nothing on Mundus more terrifying than a Daedric Lord, and none more unpredictable than Sheogorath, and he’s standing upside down looking at me with a full tooth smile.

“So good to see you again, or maybe this is the first time. Who knows these days?“ I look desperately at the upstairs doors to my family, and my resolve solidifies like ebony in my core. Daedric Prince or no, he wasn’t getting past me. But in the moment I looked away he’s moved impossibly twenty feet away and is now at the head of table, seated in a throne that could not possibly have been taken into my house, gilded in gold and carved in ways no human hands could manage.

“Don’t worry my boy, no one will be able to hear us, and if they do, I’ll just turn into a mouse, and then I’ll tickle their feet and burrow into their brain! What good fun.” The shadows surrounding us deepen, and soon I’m not longer in a home, a room, but in the abyss. Just the darkness and this man in front of me tamely examining his fingernail.

“Now, on to business! You! YOU! YOU YOU YOUYOUYOUYESYOU!!!” His voice is at my ear. The madman sits there at the end of the table, his swirling purple and red suit and snow white hair, and his lips move as if they were shaping the sound of his voice. But the sound, the living voice, was screaming in my ear. Even with the bending sensation on my mind that this creates, I manage, barely, to hold myself together.

“You have earned a great prize, or a great curse, depending on who you ask.”

“That's very generous.” My voice quivers to my shame, but I am barely physically holding myself together. I don’t particularly care about his prize or curse. All I’m trying to do is not pass out and focus on keeping my senses about me.

“Aye, my pointy eared friend. Ya see, every hundred years or so, I go and find my mind. It’s not hard, ‘cause I keep it nice and safe and tucked next to some of the finest cheese!” He’s up in a second, circling around me, talking to the air in front of him. I’m able to see the seeming middle age Sheogorath displays on his skin. But the spryness of his walk and movements undercut any presentation. The constant contradictions are unnerving.

“But unfortunately, when I do I am reminded of who I was, and who I was doesn’t quite like who I am. They don’t get along. The only thing they do agree on is that you need something. A curse or a prize, they didn’t say.”

“That seems hard.” I’m starting to focus on the conversation as I acclimate my mind to this situation. I still feel the sweat sliding down the side of my shaven head, though.

“Oh aye, it is. But it is nothing compared to the task set forth before you. Why, if I had such a complex and difficult task, I would go mad! Why, just thinking about it makes me want to wipe out half of my followers and drive the other half sane. Which they don’t like too much themselves. Being as mad as they are.” He has stopped in front of me, facing away. Suddenly, with unnatural speed, he twirls theatrically to face me with a smile that chills my bones. It’s all I can do not to flinch away, it is the only accomplishment I can attest to.

“So, my boy, which would you like?”

“What?” My reply slips out before I can think, a testament to how shaken I am.

“The thing you’ve been needing since the beginning, boy! Make up your mind, what do you want: a prize or a curse. Both are likely to kill ya, so I guess there isn’t a point! But that’s the way the game is played.” I know Sheogorath is not duplicitous by nature, only that what he may consider a prize might be a pit of vipers to a mortal. I also know that the options are limited and if I begin to bore him, he’s liable to turn me into a chicken or transport me a mile in the air.

“The prize, I guess?” I say, trying to anticipate getting a plate of cheese.

The smile just grows even wider.

“Alrighty! But first the curse!” Suddenly, he’s got a walking staff raised in the air, and there is only a moment to hear him before he brings it crashing down on my skull so fast I can’t even begin to bring my arms up to block the blow.

I understand in an instant that the curse is knowledge, because the moment the staff touches me, I am filled with a memory that hasn’t occurred but is as certain as the sun rises.

I’m running with a dozen wounds all over me, weeping my blood onto the snow-covered grass. In the middle of the night, I see the glow of the fire from behind the hill. Clutching my broken arm to my stomach I run forever, the pain and cold sapping my strength. It’s only replenished when I see the bright light of Heljarchen Hall in a towering blaze.

I suddenly don’t feel my body; I’m moving forward at an uncontrollable rate. I can barely hear my screaming as I trip over Gregor, my Housecarl. Throat open, blood on his lips, his sword inches from his fingers. He’s not alone, for every one of the friends I have are strewn around my house. Next to some of them are Altmer in their golden elvish armor, unknown in identity until I spot one in black robes with gilded edges.

The uniform of a Thalmor wizard.

I move past Gregor and find Borgakh lying not far from the main entrance of the burning building, face down in a pool of her own blood. The grief drops me to my knees before her. My eyes filling with tears, so much so that her face is blurred when I turn her over. Half covered in her own blood, her eyes - once so vibrant with vitality - are now dull.

I am lost, the pain clenches my gut, and the cry that pushes at my throat does not find release. I hear myself calling for Sylgia, for Sofie. Light-headed from wound in my side and the pain in my arm, it is when the roof collapses into the basemant that I hear them. Screaming in a horrifying high pitch made when flame meets flesh. The moment this sound hits my ears, I am heedlessly jumping into the fire - Except all I can see is the wood of the floor beneath my hands, my vomit dripping from my mouth and tears from my eyes. There is someone speaking, blubbering, and I realize it’s me.

“Oh gods! Oh gods!” Strands of my black hair lay in front of my eyes as I look up around me. The candles flutter their light along the walls, all around me is peace and quiet. The wood roof that was once aflame is untouched, and all the trappings I have collected sit calmly in stone silence.

I have somehow ended up on my hands and knees of the floor and vacated the night’s dinner onto the rug Sylgia brought from her house at Shor’s Stone. Blankly I imagine the wrinkle in-between her eyebrows born from the disappointment at this.

“Don’t worry, lad, it’s only the future that will most likely happen. They could die much sooner.”

“How…?” Bleary eyed I stare at the tall white haired man standing next to me. He seems almost a giant to me now. I want to run into the rooms, shake everyone awake and hold my daughter. But I can’t manage to stand.

“How do you stop it? I don’t know, I’M THE PRINCE OF MADNESS!!! If I knew, how would I be able to tell you? Oh yeah, with my mouth!” The contrast of his tone, and the sick wrench in my gut is making me dizzy as I stand unsteadily.

Ignoring his ramblings, I begin to walk towards my chest of paper I keep in storage on hand. I need to plan, I need to prepare. By Malacath, what I saw was not going to happen. I can still feel the fire, that angry fire that was born from the death howls of my mother settle in my shoulders and slide down my spine. I’m almost to the collection of crates piled underneath the staircase to the upstairs balcony when Sheogorath appears in front of me. The battle calm is set through me like an iron rod, from crown to foot. This Prince of Daedra doesn’t scare me anymore, and it shows in my tone.

“How do I stop it?” For a moment I see the tone of my voice strike the Daedric Prince, his face only changing imperceptivity in acknowledgement.

“Oh that’s simple, build an empire, grow an army and resurrect a dead god.” The return of that creepy smile is an unwelcome friend.

I stare into the milky eyes, my face set. If I was to move Nirn and change the moons, that was what was to happen. The smile on his unchangeable face straightens into a calm smirk, and the eyes that were an opaque white clear, and are the cold grey of my mother. His hair, bone white, darkens into common blond of a Nord from Bruma. For a moment he is a man, in a very strange purple and red suit. This change would have startled me a moment earlier, but I am unmoved. When he speaks, his voice is silk, and accent mild.

“But first.” This time, when this form of Sheogorath raises the walking stick, I don’t move a muscle. The crack of my skull fills the room, and the darkness whites in my eyes.

When it clears I find myself in darkness on unsolid ground. The sound of shifting metal hits my ears. Immediately I call forward a tiny ball of light which I bring low to the ground. Gold coins. I dig my hand in slowly and find no bottom of stone or wood. Standing back up, the light does nothing to penetrate the blackness around me.

Birthing a flame in my other hand, in case I need to fight with my will alone, I fling the ball of light from the other until it reaches the stone brick ceiling. Pushing a little harder with my will, I brighten the light hovering above me, illuminating the entirety of the space.

I’m on top of a mountain whose base reaches every wall, in a stone vault bigger than the Dwemer city of Blackreach, made entirely of gold coins.