- ShadowLegacy
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- Intrepid Legendary Member
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Shadow's (Internet) Myths
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Steam Username: xxxZealot (Add me <3)
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(¸.·´ (¸.·`Shadow Legacy
Hello there, my name is Shadow. I have frequented the Gallery (lurking) for a bit now and have finally decided to submit my own piece of work for the citizens of Bungie.net to attack. Go ahead, I'm all ears... or eyes. Please, constructive criticism but any feedback is awesome. :)
The Story:
The story will follow a character throughout the events of the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. A few twists and turns will make the story different from the game counterpart. It is called Dragonborn because it follows a Nord trying to find his roots and ultimately finding out he is a Dovahkiin or "Dragonborn". This means he has the ability to devour Dragon's souls. The story will be easy to learn and read even if you aren't a TES expert.
Note Before:
I currently have only written the prologue but I will most likely continue on with Chapter One soon. (: I wanted to see if you guys liked it first. And, I am aware there are probably many spelling mistakes and grammatical errors but please try your best as I will fix them soon. It is because I wrote the prologue at 12:00am and, of course, I am only fourteen.
Regardless, I hope you enjoy this tidbit of writing. The prologue isn't meant to be much. Just enough to interest the reader into reading more. I hope this somewhat interests you. :)
Thanks for your time. Much appreciated.
The Elder Scrolls:
Dragonborn
Prologue:
I feel a slight breeze down the left side of my neck. It's a sensational feeling, really. No doubt the cold winds from the surrounding tundra have found their way into my cozy little jail cell. I've lost track of how many days I've been kept here in this Imperial outpost on the border of Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Possibly a little under three days but it's damn well impossible to tell with this uncomfortable rag over my head. I've been tossed stale bread two times which makes me believe that I've been given what the Imperials think "dinner" is. This must mean I've been here for two nights. You never really understand the definition of boredom or solitary confinement until you have experienced it for 48 hours straight. I've been sitting in this cell alone thinking of how this whole situation started. I don't know why the Imperial Legion wants me and, to be quite honest, I don't really care either.
I guess I should describe my life story. Or, in my case, lack of a life story. I was born into a family of pure Nords in the province of Cyrodiil. More specifically the town of Leyawiin. My father was a well respected bartender at the local inn. He, by all accounts, made some of the best Ales Tamriel has ever had the fortune of displaying. My mother, however, was the opposite of my friendly father. She was a born hunter. She would be out during the day, whilst my father was serving drunkards at the inn, using a large array of spells and weapons to bring down some of the most ferocious animals that inhabited Cyrodiil. She was apparently deadly with a bow, amazing with destruction spells and swift with blades. She was one of the best and most respected huntresses out there.
When I was just six, however, a local bandit clan named the Oruluc-Skullucs decided it would be an amazing idea to attack my beloved hometown. My father was the first to fall as the inn was attacked first. I believe this was because the bandits couldn't live with a decent supply of alcohol. Regardless, my father was not built for combat but he still took out a bandit or two with his handy Steel dagger before he fell to a bandits blade. My mother, on the other hand, was specifically built for combat and displayed such finesse in her kills. But, sadly, she had grown ill as of that time with a rare disease and wasn't up to her normal standard. She still took out a decent amount of bandit outlaws before recieving a fatal cut. The Imperial Legion arrived shortly after and killed the remaining bandits. I remember feeling so scared. My mother had locked me up in the cubbord so that the bandits wouldn't kill me. And as soon as I stepped out of the cubbord into the arms of an Imperial Legion captain I knew the outcome. My parents were dead. The very people who had protected me and loved me unconditionally for six years were wiped off the face of Tamriel within seconds. It felt horrific. Like I had been betrayed. I did nothing wrong, why did I deserve this. I felt the nine divines didn't particularily like me.
I was moved to an orphanage in Imperial City and raised there until I left when I was sixteen. I had no name. I honestly had tried to forget my entire past after the horriffic events in Leyawiin. Including my name. I had, however, adopted the nickname "Zealot" because I would always try my best at everything. I would never give up. I guess you could have called me a fanatic as I always displayed the utmost enthusiasm in whatever I did.
Regardless, once I had left I received a job at the local blacksmith. I worked there for three years smithing steel armor for the Imperial Legion. Then one night I had a dream of my parents. Of how they had moved to Cyrodiil from their homeland; Skyrim, after seeking a more prosperious lifestyle. The dream had given me an idea. I wanted to get back into the roots of my Nord heritage. So then the idea spawned inside my cranium that I would venture over the border "illegally" into Skyrim and start my new life there.
Of course, knowing my luck, I was captured by the Imperial Legion along with a couple other criminals and thrown into a jail cell with this infuriating rag over my head. It itches my face ever so badly. If only my hands weren't bound...
My thoughts are interuppted by the sound of an iron gate creaking open. I feel vibrations in the ground which I assume are Steel boots worn by one particularily angry Imperial soldier. They are clearly moving towards me. I feel a giant tug and the rag is removed from my skull. A fresh blast of icy cold wind hits my face and, even though I am not used to the climate, I am filled with such a relief and sense of joy that I can't help but flash a quick grin.
The Imperial Soldier, whom I can clearly see now, picks me up by my right arm and edges me on closer to the Iron gate. He pushes me down the dimly lit hall towards the end door. All around me I can hear moaning and begging of other prisoners. Sometimes I see a rat flash past my eyes but the hall is so dimly lit by torches I am not sure if my mind is playing tricks on me. As the guard pushes me down the hall a scaley arm reaches out of a cell, no doubt belonging to an Argonian thief, and grabs my rags that have been placed over my body. The guard retaliates by unsheathes his sword and, with a fluent slash motion, purple Argonian blood is splattered across the floor. The Argonian takes displeasure in this, of course, and begins frantically screaming and cussing. The Guard takes no interest in this, however, and pushes me back down the hall and up to the final door.
He opens the door and another cold breeze smashes against my dry face. The majority of Nords enjoy the icy cold snow. I am in the main percentage. It sends goosebumps downn the back of my neck. Such blasphemy to think I have been missing out on this icy haven all my life. I've always wanted to visit Skyrim. And I might actually enjoy it here if, of course, I don't get executed by the Legion. The guard slowly pushes me out onto the snow and I take pleasure in sinking my feet into the cold snow. I see a couple of horse driven carts getting ready for travel. The guard slowly jabs me in the back as a sign to keep moving. I, obviously, take no time to get moving. I don't want to end up like that Argonian.
I take a moment to take in my surroundings, however. It appears I have been on the top of a small ice dominated mountain over the duration of my imprisonment. It is clearly just an outpost for the legion. I can tell because there is only about two buildings and a rather barbaric "wall" with a couple of guardposts. I feel another quick jab and continue walking over to my destination which is now apparent. The carts are meant for me and a couple of other now visible prisoners. When I arrive at the cart I will be riding in I exchange glances with an old man whose mouth has been tied with an old, used up rag. I quickly look away and the guard behind me simply pushes me into the cart. And when I say push, I mean as in a hard push that was intended to damage. I literally fly into the carriage headfirst. I feel the guard jump up into the cart and walk down towards me, his steel boots weighing down the cart. I have just enough time to turn my face around to feel the impact of his sturdy fist slam into my skull. As I slowly drift into unconsiousness I hear the first words he has ever muttered.
"Welcome to Skyrim..." These three words replay over and over again until I finally subject to the call of unconsiousness.
[Edited on 11.27.2011 6:43 AM PST]