When a good man goes to war, Demons run

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-Chapter one-

The first words Daenin can recall ever hearing his father speak to him are from a memory buried deep in the catacombs that structure his mind. He remembers that he was naught but four cycles of seasons old and his father let Daenin come with him to trade with the forsworn, only because Daenin had pestered his father about accompanying him since last spring. Daenin had heard about the forsworn many times and always wanted to meet them. During his fathers attempts to haggle with a forsworn on the price of his fathers furs, Daenin was coxed by a forsworn hag to come toward her. Daenin doesn't quite remember what happened after that, but he remembers his father knelt before him with anger in his eyes 'Don't you ever walk off like that again. Listen, you are to never trust anyone outside of the clan do you understand? No one except your clan!'. Daenin remembered that expression of anger and fear on his fathers face more than the words he had spoke. This memory, however it had dredged to the surface of his thoughts, made him think of his village. His village had been comprised of five clans, with about three families to each clan except his, the Rheium clan, which had only one. He recalled, from what memories of his past still existed, that the clans of his village were formed from Nordic nomads whom had traveled all across Tamriel and finally settled in Skyrim, shortly after the great war with the elves. The village was located southwest of Rorikstead in the mountainous wilderness.

Remembering the past brought a lump to Daenin's throat and weight onto his shoulders. But he shook it off quickly enough as his steed beneath him stirred, and refocused on his journey. Daenin never rode a horse until two nights ago when the kajhit caravan he now lead contracted him to guide them to Markarth. It was an unusual experience, he would have preferred to be on foot, scout out ahead, and lead the caravan in a manner of 'hops', where he would scout a couple miles ahead, while they traveled, then returned to lead for them a distance, then back out ahead to scout, back and forth. When he explained the idea to the leader of the caravan, the kajhit refused and in turn explained to Daenin that he wanted Daenin front and center leading the procession the whole time to ward off any attackers. Daenin had no problem with the idea, except the riding of the horse part, they were slow creatures compared to Daenin's prowess, and he preferred movement over the slow crawl of the caravan.

Its been a long time since Daenin had traveled to the west of Whiterun let alone anywhere past the plains. Thinking of his planned route passed Rorikstead was what had more than likely brought forth his memories. Daenin just hoped that on this journey his memories of his childhood village remained dead as they had these last three years.

With all my strength, i hope they do. Thought Daenin to himself; scared of what pain they will bring him.


-Chapter two-

While Daenin mused to himself he noticed his horse beneath begin to stir more restlessly than before. Daenin may have never ridden a horse before but he knows animals, so whilst attempting to calm the creature he lifted his ears to the surrounding plains, and heard nothing. But there was a scent, a familiar scent; the perfume of roasted skeever assailed Daenin's for-thoughts as a memory resurrected by that familiar scent bought purchase of his mind.

Daenin saw himself lunging, stabbing, screaming, crying, all the while trying to steel himself for whatever was coming toward the caravan, but the memory seemed to bleed into the reality around him, robbing him of his senses. The pain and anguish of his past was tearing him from his sanity, trying to make him see what he has forgotten and regressed for more than three years.

No, I need to focus on whats happening now, what's coming.

Daenin's mind bulged at the seems as he continued to fend off the memory that was buried in the furthest recesses of the vault of memories within. When last he felt he could no longer contain it, like the calming touch of his mothers hand, another memory settled over relieving him of his mental spasms. It was another buried memory, even though painful in itself, easier to let pass so he can return to his reality than the former.

"Daenin, you are the strongest person i have ever known. You know that right?", asked Faermor Atar, Daenin's closest childhood friend, a bosmer he met while hunting in the winter of his eleventh cycle of seasons; the age that the boys in his village became men and hunted on their own for the first time.

"I'm not that strong Faermor, i can just barely lift my fathers warhammer to swing let alone actually use it."

"That's not what i mean Daenin."

"Than what do you mean?"

"I'm saying that you have the strongest heart of anyone i know; you're curious but honest, honest but loyal. You are stronger than any mere, and wiser than any hume."

"Why do you tell me this Faermor?"

"Because one day you may need to hear these words spoken to you, from me, through your memories."

As the memory passes the only thought in Daenin's mind was the same thought he had back all those years ago when Faermor had finished speaking, okay...?

Daenin's mind clears and he refocuses on his surroundings, the scent is still there, but more faint, and his horse is completely calm. Whatever it was, it had passed them and took no notice. He could sense though that the kajhit felt something as well as their beasts-of-burden had. But since none complained, Daenin kept his entire episode to himself.

No need to let them know I'm going insane and lose my advance.

-Chapter three-

Daenin took a deep breath and cleared his mind, focusing on the landscape around him. All was clear and calm in the plains, strange, thought Daenin to himself.

I've not even seen a giant let alone a mammoth. Strange, but not uncommon. But still, something is very off; it's deathly quiet out here, more so than normal.

Feeling uneasy, Daenin called the caravan to a halt and ordered the kajhit's to water their horses. Unsure of his capability to do battle atop a mount, Daenin lead his steed over to one of the slower moving wagons and hitched it there to help pull the weight, then dismounted. Upon finding earth beneath his feet, Daenin drew his bow- an exquisitely crafted dwarven, or dwemer his uncle would correct, bow his uncle had forged for him- and strung it preparing himself for anything to come. He then sought out the caravans leader, an old, weathered kajhit by the name of Dar' Conakul, to tell of his unsettled nerves and explain to the bull-headed old cat that they should start the procession moving in fifteen minutes, and Daenin would be out, at a half miles distance, running a perimeter around the caravan as it traveled. Hopefully he wouldn't have to waste too much time explaining to the kajhit that this direction of surveillance would be safer for all of them. As Daenin approached Dar' Conakul, the old kajhit lifted his right paw, palm forward, out to Daenin, causing him to pause and remain still at a distance.

"Young nord, I've sensed it myself, no explanation is necessary, do what you must."

Daenin kept his pause for a moment; he didn't know much about Dar' Conakul other than he was more stubborn than a mule and once was a great warrior. Daenin referred to him as an old cat often enough to himself, but truly had the utmost respect for the kajhit.

"Thank you, Dar' Conakul. Once you see me make one complete round, start the procession of the caravan once more."

Dar' Conakul nodded as Daenin turned and darted out toward the open plain. As Daenin moved quietly out into the open plains he felt refreshed on his own legs, moving with a preternatural grace uncommon to most, or any nord. Once he was about seventy yards from the edge of the caravan, Daenin nocked an arrow and pulled the string back at a mild tension, keeping the arrow pointed at a forty-five degree angle toward the ground as he was practiced in doing. Daenin continued onward playing out his years of self-discipline as he watched and listened to any and all noises, if there were any, which there isn't. The only noise Daenin could pick up was that of a brook flowing to the west of him.

It happened fast and unexpected. Daenin barely had time to react to the massive shadow as it covered the land. First he was watching the horizon to the east and second, out of thin air, literally, a shadow fell across the plains and Daenin was dodging a stream of fire that was hot enough to melt through a boulder. As Daenin somersaulted away and sprang back to his feet, he spun and stood frozen in wondrous awe of the the most magnificent and majestic creature he had ever seen; A DRAGON!
 

Neriad13

Premium Member
I am intrigued. You've made such a unique setup and fleshed out the character of Daenin wonderfully so far. I also think the Forsworn are such an interesting group. The conflict between them and the rest of Skyrim, in my opinion, might be just as well thought-out as the premise of the Civil War. But the difference is that they seem to be so rarely talked about on these forums.
 

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