Skyrim: The Unlikely Companions | By : NoLoreMaster Category: +A through F > Elder Scrolls - Skyrim Views: 3241 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: Bethesda Softworks is the creator of the The Elder Scrolls Universe, so logically, this isn't mine. This fanfiction is non-profit and fan-made. Hope that covers it. Don't eat me D= |
Before we begin I want to shoot BronxWench a shout as thanks for helping me out. Poor thing must have facepalmed a multitude of times while the site gave me hell =P
Since I'm rusty, and will be brushing up my writing 'skills', I apologize for the first few chapters, including the briefness of this prologue, but I will be polishing them up later. Either way, I'd love to hear your opinion. Let's dive right in -hands out goggles-.
Skyrim: The Unlikely Companions
PrologueEagles and seagulls soared in the soft sea-breeze that swept along the coastlines of Alinor. The sun was setting and Lord Falintaor Valanocke leaned back in his seat on the terrace. Across from him, sat Lord Highal, who was a visitor to his estate.
Both were High Elven lords, sipping their wine as they talked with each other.
“Taurmillan has risen amongst the ranks of the Thalmor and should be home for a few months so we have the time for all arrangements required,” said Lord Highal. His dark, golden hair held a warm glow, which was an odd contrast against the cold, sharp features of his face. “We could host the wedding at our estate, if you wish.”
“That would be appropriate.” Lord Falintaor swayed the goblet of wine in his hand. “I hope your son will find my Cirilonde pleasing. She’s educated, refined and has no problems leaving Alinor to be at his side.”
“I understood she has ambitions to join the College of Winterhold in Skyrim…if you can call that ambitious.” Lord Highal scrounged his hooked nose in disdain. To think any College for the arcane arts could surpass the quality of education in Alinor was…laughable.
“I agree, but she’s young and wants to see the world. She’ll get it out of her head once she’s occupied with the wedding.” Lord Valanocke looked out over the gardens. The mention of the College did unsettle him as Cirilonde had been quite adamant about attending. However, he knew that his daughter would never disgrace her house or family, so he was assured that she would return the courtship.
“They should return shortly,” Lord Highal’s thin lips curled into an insincere smile.
Lord Valanocke nodded, sipping his wine as he looked out over the gardens where his daughter and her husband-to-be were out for a walk somewhere.
Cirilonde tried to ease her nerves, but from the very moment Lord Highal and his son had entered her father’s estate, her attempts at conversation with Taurmillan had been rather terrible. Perhaps it was the nerves, like her mother had assured her. All part of the romance of courtship, but she was definitely not feeling the ‘ romance’ her mother had described when she told her daughter about her own courtship.
She felt trapped, anxious and awkward. Taurmillan on the other hand, didn’t seem to care. Not because he was the friendly or reassuring sort. He was a handsome Altmer, she did admit. His face was sharp, smooth and angular and his nose was hooked like his father’s. His hair was thick and golden and his eyes grey. But though she tried, she could feel no connection to the man, who had been present at some of the historical turning points against the Empire, who had submitted to the Aldmeri Dominion. “Men are weak. All we have achieved in but a few decades is proof to our supremacy. Even now, Skyrim has become a cesspool of disarray and chaos because the apes squabble over their holds.”
“It is not all bad,” Cirilonde tried her best to charm him, resting her hand on his as they walked through the gardens. The Wood Elf servants had done their utter best to make sure the garden had been in the utmost pristine state. Flowers were blooming and songbirds had been soothed to skitter about nearby, singing their song. The whole scenario could have been incredibly romantic, but just felt forced. “The College of Winterhold is a pristine example of learning. Many great Mer attended in the past, even during the glory days of the Arcane University.”
“There’s not much left of it now but rubble and ruin.” Taurmillan scowled and though he had noted her hand on his, he patted it as though she were a dog. He then raised a brow at her. “Surely you aren’t thinking of attending?”
“I actually am.” Cirilonde’s excitement wasn’t shot down by Taurmillan’s disapproving, cold gaze. “I hope to pursue the arts of Conjuration and Destruction further. Their Arcaneum holds a vast collection of literature that is nearly unmatched.” When she did note his disapproval, she grew nervous. “Surely you wouldn’t want to marry an uneducated woman?”
“It would seem trivial, but you make an understandable point, given you shan’t have access to the Masters of the arts here.” Taurmillan’s eyes were so cold they gave Cirilonde the chills. “I am stationed as an Emissary in Valenwood, so perhaps it would be better for you to attend this…college of yours in Skyrim before we pursue anything.”
But the only thing that was pursued, was Cirilonde, into Skyrim. All had seemed fine. The Lords of Highal stated or showed nothing to indicate they had taken offence that Cirilonde preferred to educate herself further before being wed. But Lord Highal had taken offence and he would take care of such insolence himself discreetly.
Cirilonde squinted her eyes as she had finally made it out of the mountain pass from Bruma to Falkreath and the sun’s glare briefly blinded her. The wind she had heard howling overhead in the pass, now greeted her by chilling her to the bone. She wrapped her robes and fur collar tighter about her as she looked at the map of Skyrim she had bought just before heading into the pass. “So I could take a carriage straight from Falkreath,” she mused and looked up from her map, out ahead. From the high slope she stood, there was a worn pathway that led down to what had to be Falkreath.
But as she continued her way, she was suddenly very much at unease. The trip had been way too easy. Granted, she’d stuck to the roads and had been careful, but she had not once encountered bandits or dangerous wildlife and it was way too quiet and peaceful.
As she winded down the path, she froze in her steps when at the dirt road’s crossroad, stood four men, all High Elven Thalmor, clad in the typical black and gold leather and hooded robes.
The moment one of them stepped forward and pointed at her, “You there, you are under arrest!” she ran as fast as her long legs managed. Bolts of fire and lightning shot past her as she ran into the dense forest off the beaten path. Branches tore at her silver-blonde hair and latched onto her face if they didn’t rip at her clothes or ankles.
Warm blood trickled down her cheeks as thorns grazed her face. The breath was knocked out of her and her body tensed painfully when a lightning bolt hit her in the back. She fell face-down in the mud and tried to get up but the four men were already there.
“A pointless, pitiful effort,” said one of them as he gathered the rope from his belt. He had almost knelt down to tie Cirilonde’s wrists together, however, when he suddenly leaped up to the horrid, gurgling sound and saw his colleague choke on his own blood and collapse.
Before the remaining three could even spring to attention, a bolt shot into the throat of the second, and the third but cried out in pain as he was stabbed in the side and collapsed in a miserable, spasming heap before he ceased moving. The fourth remained and readied his gloved hands, which sparked with static.
“Found you!” But the fourth Thalmor had shot the bolts of lightning into the nothingness.
Cirilonde remained frozen; cold, terrified and hurt in the mud but she looked at the Thalmor who towered over her as he looked for the invisible assailant. There was only the silent rustle of the leaves and branches and the howl of a beast in the distance.
“Who goes there?!” The Thalmor snarled. “You are a fool to think tha-,”
Cirilonde shrieked in horror. The man who had come from the shadows had been exactly like a shadow; silent and swift before plunging a dagger into the Thalmor’s back and breaking his neck.
“Please don’t hurt me!” Cirilonde covered her head. She must have looked pathetic in her mud-drenched robes and tear-stained face.
“Get up, sera, we need to go.” The man’s voice was rough and deep and when she looked up, saw that he had the typical, fiery red eyes of a Dunmer; the ashen-skinned elves from Morrowind.
Cirilonde took his hand and he motioned for her to follow, which took her a lot of effort. He was nimble and quick. She had no idea how he did so because it was so cold. Granted, though, he hadn’t been lying face-down in the mud and snow like she had.
Just when she was about to ask where she was taking him, he pulled her against him, covering her mouth and hiding the both of them behind a rock. He allowed her to look as he did too, to see a group of twelve men clad in blue cloaks walked along a hidden trail. But they too, moved quietly, until suddenly, torches were lit all around them and cries were heard.
“It’s an ambush!” cried one of the blue-cloaked men.
“There’s more here!” Both the Dark Elf and Cirilonde had been so intent on the scene before them, they had not paid attention to their own surroundings. Before them stood Imperial Legionnaires. Before they could even protest, they were pushed to the men in blue cloaks, who had surrendered.
“What are these knife-ears doing here?” One of the battle-scarred women, a Nord, spat upon seeing Cirilonde and the Dark Elf, who were forced to their knees as well. Cirilonde and he both put their hands on the back of their heads.
Cirilonde looked up at the Imperial man, shuddering from both fear and cold. Most of his face was obscured by his helmet, but judging by the medals on his armor, she could tell he was in charge and of high rank. “If they’re not with you…”
“Sir! Sir!” All heads turned to the panicked, young scout who came running, almost stumbling over his feet. “General Tullius, Sir, there are four Thalmor…”
“Catch your breath, boy.” Tullius, the man before her, turned. “What of the Thalmor?”
“There are four of them…” the boy desperately caught his breath and frantically pointed in the distance where the elves had come from. “…all of them are dead. Over there at the clearing.”
Tullius’ eyes locked on the Dark Elf, who had remained very silent and calm despite all that had transpired. “So even the Dark Brotherhood tries to mingle with the state of affairs?” Tullius reached for the dagger sheathed near the Dark Elf’s chest. When he pulled it out, he looked at the fresh blood that still stained the blade. “Get all of them on a cart. Tie them all up and make sure our Hero of Skyrim over there can’t utter a word like we planned.”
“Bu-,” The Dark Elf nudged Cirilonde with his foot, giving her a warning glare and shook his head.
It was futile.
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