“When you hold a sword, make sure you have a firm grip, like this,” Roland grabbed his son’s hand and tightened it around the hilt of the weapon.

“But Da,” The young boy protested. “It’s heavy.”

“I know, Marik, but if you want to be a fighter, you have to get strong. Here, you can swing it with two hands. Give it a try.”

Marik nodded and walked over to a nearby tree, and swing his sword sloppily into the bark. It bounced off in recoil, thrusting the boy’s arm back so far his body bent. Roland smiled, he remembered when his father taught him how to swing.

“No, no, you have to put more force into it, Marik. When you swing, you are trying to cut the other person, not smack them. Here.”

He took out his own war-axe, and swung it at the branch, lodging it into the thick bark. It took almost as much effort to bull the blade out as it did to thrust it in. When he removed it there was a nice sized chunk of soft wood, revealing the many rings of the old tree. It made him remember how long Skyrim has been around.

“You should feel it in your chest and shoulders, and exhale while you swing. Now, try again, son.”

The boy nodded determinedly, and lifted his sword again. He swung, this time striking the hard trunk head on. It had sunk in only about a finger deep, but it was god enough for a ten year old.

“Not bad, now that you know how to swing back-hand, I’ll teach you forehand. The difference is when you swing fore--”

There was a sound. He heard it far off in the distance, in the direction of the mountains to the north, not to far from them. A roar. He looked up but could not see anything. ?
“What in the Eight...” he muttered quietly to himself. Then he heard wings flapping in the distance. In the clouds he could barely make out the small silhouette of wings, a tail, a neck, and . . . horns.

“Marik, give me the sword. Run back to Morthal. Don’t look back for me. Find the guards.”

“But I don’t understand, father. Are you coming wi--” Another roar, now followed by a searing light, brilliant orange. It shot down into the white forest, changing the hue of the horizon to black.

“Go! I’m running right behind you.”

Together they sprinted through the forest, en route to Morthal, which was about 300 paces from here. Roland kept up with his son for some time, all the while reassuring him and urging him to press on, and not to look back, and all the while the beast behind them roaring closer and closer. Then, once the city was in sight, he stopped. He couldn’t lead it to the city, then it would burn the whole town down.

He breathed in deeply, then turned around. There it was in the sky, flying about majestically, lighting the whole forest ablaze. There was now an opening of light where trees used to give shade. It was illuminated now by fire. He reached for his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver. So beautiful a beast, he thought as he laced and notched his arrow. It was in front of him now, eyes hungrily towards the town before them all. He released the arrow, barely piecing the dragon’s scales. Good thing he’d enchanted the bow with poison. The dragon roared in outrage and stretched its neck below him to identify the puny soul that struck it. He spotted Roland and banked sharply. Roland instinctively knew what was coming next, and ran for the opening after firing another arrow into its neck. The fire came hot and seared his backside, but he kept on. He knew he wasn’t making it out alive, but he was determined to distract it from the town. From his townsmen, from his son. Marik . . . for Sahri . . .

He reached the charred outcropping, and looked up. The dragon had beat him here and cut him off from the front. It was toying with him. It landed heavily, shaking the ground below them, and knocking Roland off balance. When he recovered he saw it staring straight at him. He reached into his sack, pulling out a dark green flask. He had one more surprise for him.

“Consider this a parting gift.” Roland said. He dipped his next arrow into the vial. Orcish made, as well as the bow. It had been of good use to him, as well as the enchantment. The dragon was walking now, almost pacing him in a way. As it hissed, he noticed the saliva drip to the ground and singe the dirt. “You’re even more fearful in person, I never thought I’d live to see one. . .” He drew the arrow back, aimed at the beast’s mouth. The beast growled again, brought his neck back, then opened. Roland could feel the heat as he released his arrow. He heard his son scream for him in the distance. He told himself not to yell. . .