Dragons had come to Skyrim, there was no doubting that. However, the tall male who had partially stumbled into town had only met one of these fire-breathing beasts; it flung his noble black steed aside like timber wood and had set crushing talons onto his daedric armor, denting it inwards so it was making it hard for the man to breath. He leaned against one of the support beams alongside Falkreath's buildings, just before the local inn, Dead Man's Drink, the matching daedric claymore on his back and the rugged look on his face deemed he was a warrior. But what most people of Skyrim saw was a Dunmer, least that's what they assumed he was; Shademyth, as he went by, could have been easily mistaken for a Mer if it wasn't for his emerald orbs peering out accusingly at everyone else. The truth was, his skin may have worn a familiar shade of grayish blue but his bloodline was far more "sinister" than anyone would have suspected.

The last few centuries hadn't been kind to him--though the average folk didn't dare near him enough to see just how old he was. They were right to fear a stranger, especially since they heard rumors of a being spreading misfortune across the land, a being who looked very much like him...and it didn't help that he went about using magic, a thing he knew his once-"kin" disapproved of. Now, if this had been back in Cyrodiil during the events of the Oblivion Gates opening, there were many who would have called him a hero...but things were very different now. He himself was a changed man. Everything he thought he knew was a lie.

But none of that would assist him in his current situation. He needed rest, maybe a stiff drink first, to lull himself to sleep. Gods knew he had all of eternity left, what was the use of standing around all the time. The magics woven into his armor created a faint glow about it surface, and even the weapon on his back shimmered a faint blue and purple aura. Getting these items fixed would take time but the even bigger problem was being able to get access to a forge. Not one of the passerbys looked friendly towards Shademyth and he looked away from their stares, trying to ignore them as he struggled to get into the inn, storm clouds turning all the more darker gray as light rainfall started.

Near exhaustion, the elven-looking man found the nearest seat once inside the inn and almost collapsed into in after setting the claymore down, gaining the attention of the few souls who were enjoying their evening there. The man let out a sigh, his shoulder length black hair falling wherever it willed over his handsome features. Well pronounced nose, chiseled chin, and prominent high cheekbones were all outlined by the roaring firepit, and the male welcomed the comfort compared to the weather outside. He closed his eyes for a moment trying to recall what the dragon had hissed at him. "Him joorre mah....sahrot Dovahkiin?" he found himself muttering, but he had never heard the language before, well, not before then. What did it translate to? And who was this Dovahkiin? Azura had mentioned his path would cross with someone or something else but knowing her she wasn't clear on the matter. Shademyth opened his eyes again to stare into the flames, mulling the thought over in his head.