The Road Untraveled

Out of a winding crevice in the natural rock wall, two weary Wood Elves wielding bloodied steel emerged from a haze of shadow to the clarity of noonday light.

In typical circumstances, distinguishing individual characteristics within the pair would be a fruitless endeavor. Padded fur hoods concealed all but the key features of their faces-- prominent pointed chins, gaunt cheekbones, and ebony-coated eyes, which are all to be expected from the stripe of mer originally hailing from Valenwood (or in the case of the first two traits, common in all of elven kind).

On this particular day however, dusky armor failed to hide the two very contrasting spirits swaying each Bosmer adventurer’s demeanor. Faendal took long swaggering strides northeast - towards his hometown of Riverwood - that crunched over the wooded valley’s thin carpet of olive and umber. Trodding more lightly and several paces behind - yet not quite following - Teira hesitantly advanced while wearing a tense frown, making an arc north and northwest to the nearest river bank.

Despite the relatively temperate weather and pleasantly pine-tinged air, Teira sensed he was unwelcome in the northern countryside. War bled the warmth out of Skyrim.

Paradoxically, it was while slaying ruthless bandits in the crumbling depths of Embershard Mine that Tiera felt most distant from the land’s conflict. In the confines of abandoned tunnels where the valley’s two-legged predators guarded their spoils, fighting was… well, certainly not a clean affair. The Redguard sentry at the mine’s door would attest to that, if his speech somehow survived when Teira’s gouts of flame magic reduced the rest of him to a charred husk.

No, combat would remain messy, as shedding a man or mer of life should and always will be… but at least even in the deepest darkness, it was black and white who your foe would be. Since exiting the caverns and returning where the greater region of Skyrim could be tangibly seen and felt, Teira recalled how civil wars blur such idealistic borders

Once the troubled Wood Elf knelt by the river bank, a constant waterfall roar scattered his lofty concerns, just as the water’s current absorbed the remnants of red from his weapons. Drawn out of a leather loop on his left side, Teira clasped his club, modestly spiked and more slender in design than traditional maces. His chosen companion weapon, on the other hand, was a tanto-- a straight, single-edged short sword offering a lethal stab. Finally, a composite shortbow - fashioned in the Colovian-Imperial style, laminated in a mahogany hue, and infused with magicka to strike targets with irrational fear - rested upon the Bosmer’s back.

As a trained nightblade displaced from the Imperial province of Cyrodiil, Teira scorned the use of scavenged equipment; an arsenal crafted by his own hands seemed more fitting, for taking an enemy’s life was a costly and personal affair.

“I can’t wait to see the look on Sven’s face, when I tell Camilla of how we killed a dragon!”

Faendal soundlessly crept next to his kneeling companion before unleashing the gleeful outburst. In light of Teira’s killer instincts exercised only minutes before, such a surprise might have cost any other fellow his life… but not Faendal, who had spoken more than enough for his voice to be immediately familiar. The second Wood Elf tugged back his dark leather hood, revealing pale hair fixed in a ponytail to accent his long face and proud smirk.

Teira jerked his club and tanto out of the river, producing a rough splash, before answering, “You may wish to focus on Camilla’s face first. That is, unless you’re so sure she will believe you…”

The Sven that Faendal mentioned was a Nord bard in Riverwood, and Camilla the object of both the man and mer’s affections. At the onset of their journeys, Teira  invited his Bosmer kinsman to chat about the pursuit, as the idea of romance seemed a welcome distraction from the somber work of dungeon clearing. Unfortunately, as Teira discovered and regretted soon after, “object” was a very fitting descriptor for the woman’s value in Faendal’s eyes, as he was more concerned with infuriating Sven than seeking Camilla’s happiness.

“Dragon slaying may be a feat beyond the ordinary, but Camilla has seen what I can do at the archery range.”

“...combat archery is more than hitting an immobile target-”, Teira muttered.

Oblivious in the din of tumbling water, Faendal continued, “...it will only confirm who she always believed me to be, but for that bum of a bard it may be the last straw to drive him out of Riverwood! Ah-, with the second-to-last straw being thanks to your own help, of course!”

Teira turned away from his companion without a word. The incident Faendal alluded to was not one to be pridefully remembered, though the nightblade acted as he felt was right.

Faendal, fearful that Sven would woo Camilla with his poems, wrote a slanderous sonnet in his rival’s name and asked Teira to deliver it. Teira did deliver it - not to Camilla - but to Sven, who he hoped would responsibly resolve the matter with Faendal directly. Instead, the bard gave Teira his own forged letter from Faendal, which portrayed the Bosmer as a bigot, wishing to cut off his friendship with the “inferior” Imperial Camilla.

Repulsed by the pettiness of mer and man - but namely towards Sven for considering Camilla’s feelings and Teira’s honesty as pawns for selfish gain - Teira confessed the latter deception to Camilla, and remained silent regarding the former.

The result was partial yet practical justice. Sven’s ballads, composed in desperation afterward, did little to earn back favor from Camilla. Yet - to the chagrin of both her admirers - it was the mysterious and virtuous nightblade who won her eyes and sighs. More importantly, Teira received... not quite a friend, but a follower to fight alongside. As every adventurer before and after him would learn (assuming they live past their first battle), trustworthy allies are rare and not easily replaced.

The sound of leather falling onto grass, strangely muffled, interrupted Teira a second time. Turning back towards his companion, he saw a pair of enchanted hide boots placed before him, while Faendal sat barefooted upon a boulder, equipping his old fur shoes.

“We agreed the boots should fall under your share of the loot,” Teira stated flatly, though he cocked his head in curiosity. A trained nightblade did not scavenge his equipment.

“A gift,” Faendal intoned, before offering a single solemn nod.

That detail changed the matter, for one principle took priority over Teira’s professional code. Wood Elves contrast with their dour Dumner and ascetic Altmer cousins, in their cultural celebration for life’s pleasures-- among them, giving.

The brooding nightblade drew back his own hood, and bowed low. Shadows fled from his light-copper face, save for two sage green streaks-- painted horizontally across each of his wide eyes, then arcing down from his temples before ending in thin lines at his broad jaw. Teira’s sepia brown hair - long and unkempt save for a braided lock by his left ear - nearly veiled him in the cowl’s place, but he swatted it aside in a futile gesture, to assert his intended respect.

“...besides,” Faendal added, disrupting the formality, “I won’t put it to much use: you would have heard me even with the magically muffled steps, if it weren’t for the waterfall. I prefer shooting from a distance where my foes won’t hear me.”

Despite his own ethics on the matter, Teira regarded that confession with a smile. “Thank you.”

Faendal nimbly lept from the rock and returned the bow. “Thank you-- you’ve been more than fair to me. You and I are… different. I could tell - before you wrestled with a dragon - that you are purposed for something greater than hunting bandits, and the path ahead of you is one I can’t follow. I’m more suited for my home, where life is quiet and the Civil War hasn’t touched the region… at least not yet.

“Still, I appreciate the break from Riverwood’s stillness. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do, but feel free to move on to what you mean to do next.”

Teira slowly nodded, his shoulders slumping. “I understand.”

The Wood Elf archer set out again in the direction Riverwood. His footsteps, though no longer masked by enchantment, quickly faded under the violent clamor of rushing water.

“Faendal!” Teira suddenly called, trudging hastily after the other elf. He sheathed his tanto and rested his club, resolving to give the weapon’s their proper oiling later. A question formed in the tumultuous tempest of the nightblade’s mind: a question to offer solace for Teira’s conscience.

Faendal pivoted to face the other Bosmer expectantly.

“You mentioned the Civil War. In Cyrodiil, they called it a minor rebellion, yet every hold but Whiterun boasts red or blue banners. You seem content staying out of it, though. Why? How do you resist the pressure to pick a side, when the vast majority of Skyrim is anything but apathetic?”

At this inquiry, Faendal flashed his signature smirk a second time. “It’s simple, and the same reason you were wise to help me out with Camilla, instead of Sven. Pick the side that will benefit you, or don’t get involved at all.”

---

Blades of grass rose and fell like a restless jade sea across Cyrodiil’s heartland. At the end of the Blue Road and nestled beside the Valus mountains, the violet structures of Cheydinhal rested among a ring of gentle willows. The nightblade would not enter the city gates, unfortunately, and neither could he afford to travel along any cobbled path.

Teira had been running in darkness for days.

Turning south, Teira traversed a treacherous trail along the Reed River rapids to the crooked cottage of the Silver Seer. The structure’s position on the lip of a precarious precipice did little to ease his concerns.

You’re going to trust your future to someone nearly blind and insane from exposure to sacred revelation? Wait! Don’t listen to him. It won’t be worth the pain. The Empire may find a way to protect you yet.

Despite Teira’s present perspective of remorse, the sequence of memories in his dreaming mind replayed no differently. Driven forward by a fear for his own life and the safety of his kin, the nightblade pressed on.

Rather than waiting for Teira to try its handle, the door flung open of its own accord. A bone-chilling wind manifested from the portal, stinging the Bosmer’s ebon eyes. He summoned the final remnants of his courage and stepped through, only to stumble as shadows and battle cries closed in around him.

When Teira regained his senses and struggled to rise, iron chains scorned him in hollow tones and denied every effort at movement. Blood-slick stone pressed against the Wood Elf’s helpless neck, and when he turned his eyes upward, he saw a masked executioner lifting an axe into the charcoal sky.

No! Mercy! This is a mistake; I am no rebel. I traveled to Skyrim exactly as the Silver Seer instructed. How can I find redemption for myself and my family, if my journey ends here?

As if mirroring the Teira’s thoughts and frustration, the raging roar of a dragon rent the former stillness in the air. Before the ringing echoes of its cry faded, the mythic beast swooped out of the mountain peaks to drop its massive form upon a watchtower. Earth quivered in the dragon’s dread wake, sundering the links of the captive nightblade’s bonds and disarming the headsman of his vindictive edge. The monstrous predator lept from its perch, sowing chaos and flame against Imperial soldiers and Stormcloak captives alike… but to Teira the dragon withheld its wrath, for the moment.

Now is my chance. I can warn the nearest city of this dragon, and use whatever reward they give me to escape Skyrim. My enemies will think I was successfully executed, or else burned along with the others. I will be free.

Sensing his strength return in the light of this great hope, Teira ran with his all. He sprinted past the charred town walls of Helgen. Teira lept across the wide stream bisecting Riverwood. Even when sylvan landscape gave way to barren tundra, the nightblade kept his pace, and once he could make out the city of Whiterun and its golden banners, Teira did not waste time with guards and gates, when his vigor sustained him to scale the walls directly to the keep.

Yet minutes later, when Teira left the presence of Whiterun’s ruler, Jarl Balgruuf, he felt burdened by more than his coin purse. Days had passed in a meaningless blur, the sky remained dim, and dragon cries still echoed throughout Skyrim.

I don’t understand. Who am I, to think I can help these people? Who are they, that I should risk myself on their behalf?

Feeling paralyzed with indecision, Teira could accomplish little more than a scan of the horizon. His gaze fell upon a watchtower outside the city limits, where guards battled another dragon, faring no better than the Imperials at Helgen.

Teira did not find answers to his questions, but something beyond adrenaline and instinct rose in his heart, at watching these brave warriors flung about as dolls. There was something wholly wrong that this foe should prevail over valiant men, for the dragon’s heart was entirely devoid of compassion and loyalty.

The furious nightblade lept from the walls of Whiterun, soaring high above several fields and brooks before landing in the fray of this bleak battle. Seizing the opportunity while his enemy was still distracted, Teira vaulted onto the dragon and straddled its hulking neck, delivering a frenzied barrage of cuts, bludgeons, and magicka bolts… fully anticipating that this fight would be his last.

When the smoke cleared and the surviving guard force found Teira, he was slumped over unconscious, atop the skeletal remains of a humbled dragon. One of Whiterun’s protectors noticed an aura of magicka streaming from the crumpled bones to the unconscious Wood Elf.

“Unbelievable! He consumed its soul. He is Dragonborn. The one the Greybeards call-”

Outside of the county of Whiterun, and outside of Teira’s dreams, the Greybeards whispered from their elevated sanctuary, High Hrothgar. Their whisper, spoken in the mighty and ancient language of dragons, descended from their mountain fortress, to resound across all of Skyrim.

“DOVAKHIIN!”

---

Lamplight cast a golden glow on each window in Riverwood, as the residents woke and wondered the identity of this Dragonborn, summoned by his name in the Dragon language: Dovakhiin. Aware of the community’s stirring and curiosity, Teira slipped out if the inn and darted from shadow to shadow until he could take the road south. The solitary nightblade left with his backpack, and no plan of when he would return.

In the forest, where the twin moonlight of Masser and Secunda directly overhead softened the darkness and guided his steps, Teira found time to think.

He did not want to be the Dragonborn. Skyrim’s people spoke of this chosen individual as a hero, born with the soul of a dragon by the favor of Akatosh. As a nightblade, Teira was not accustomed to such praise and reverence, for his work was ideally accomplished without notice. This made the title very tempting, but its attached responsibility to clear the country of dragons seemed a suicidal task.

...he also didn’t want to entrust his fate to mysterious old men for the second time.

Let the warriors have their glory. I came to Skyrim to find freedom, for myself and the safety of my family. I worked hard to come this far, and I’m not going to risk everything again.

Teira’s words seemed bold in his mind, but something tugging in the nightblade’s heart kept him weighing and wrestling with the issue… until eventually the road led to a seldom-taken trail, which ended at a short plateau overlooking the length of Lake Ilinalta. Six split-log benches were arranged, not to face the scenic view, but to focus upon a statue which Teira approached for a closer inspection.

The stoic figure of stone held a greatsword ready to plunge downward, while standing over an enourmous serpent. He wore chainmail armor with a hefty fur cloak and heroic winged helm-- the image of a mighty Nord leader. Teira recognized it as a statue to Talos.

Talos was also a Dragonborn, and he used his power to bring all of Tamriel under a single unified empire. His empire still survives today, though in a recently fragmented form, and he became the “Ninth Divine” of the Imperial religion.

The Aldmeri Dominion of the High Elves, a violent and supremacist leadership, began the Great War against the Empire, which ended with an uneasy armistice purchased at a steep price-- namely, the banning of Talos worship. The divinity of a human and a unified Empire were both offenses to the Aldmeri.

The Nords of Skyrim, who remember Talos most reverently, responded to this restriction by building their shrines in secret, at the risk of arrest and torture by the Aldmeri enforcers allowed into Imperial-controlled Skyrim, known as the Thalmor.

The Thalmor are the sole reason I’ve suffered through all this. If I joined the Stormcloak Rebellion, I could seek revenge, and I would remain far from their reach.

Teira tried to savor the thought, but its satisfaction faded in the very next moment. He lacked the Stormcloak conviction in their hero-god, would be a pariah in their racist ranks as an elf, and peaceful rest would surely elude Teira, should he further split the Empire to benefit the Dominion. Such a decision would follow Faendal’s advice for choosing friends, but Teira wished to base his decision on reasons greater than personal gain.

Teira turned away from the statue to face that watery mirror to the star-spotted heavens, Lake Ilinalta. He specifically distinguished the ruins of what was an Imperial fort, nearly submerged and clearly unlevel at the lake’s northern bank.

The Empire is crumbling. If I try to save it, the Thalmor will know I survived. I’d be in their jurisdiction, and completely helpless should the Imperial Legion sacrifice me for the sake of keeping peace.

Teira released a long exhale as he realized this dilemma would keep him here until the morning or longer, should he let it.

As the deliberating nightblade returned towards Riverwood along the overgrown trail from the Talos shrine, he realized that - though he missed it and followed this side path in his contemplative state - the main road continued and curved east.

An additional route… and one which does not lead to a dead end.

Faendal’s parting words, “Pick the side that will benefit you... or don’t get involved at all,” repeated in Teira’s mind. He could take this chance to leave Skyrim, as he originally planned, and let its people sort out their own affairs. Perhaps he could settle in High Rock, and find people there to help without putting his life in peril. Heroism in another land might justify fleeing this one.

Feeling cowardly, yet compelled to do what he must, a resigned nightblade walked back to Riverwood, intending only to buy supplies before making his departure from the province. Left to his will alone, Teira would accomplish that very goal…

...but he was greeted by an ordinary guard at the town’s edge, whose words would have an extraordinary effect.

“Hey! You!”

Teira failed to notice the group of guards resting at the stone arch that marked the entry to Riverwood. There were no guardsmen garrisoned at the town when he left it, but now five were on watch.

“Come over here, Wood Elf. Let me see your face.”

Teira realized - too late - that his return to Riverwood during the predawn hours must appear suspicious, and pulled away his hood before carefully approaching.

“Ah-, I thought I saw you before.  You’re in no trouble… I just wanted to say thanks. The Jarl sent us out this way at the same time you went to fight that dragon.”

Teira opened his mouth to say something polite in return, but froze. Did they hear what happened to the dragon’s body and soul following the battle?

“....it’s Teira, right? I’m Jerin. Do you think you’ll be back in Whiterun in a week, Teira?”

“Er-, it’s unlikely. I’m thinking I’ll head west.” It was a half-lie on Teira’s part; his prospective destination of High Rock was true west from Skyrim, though he would be taking the road south to get there.

“Huh. West is good. I’m sure the Imperial side of Skyrim could put you to good use.”

A second guard added, “We don’t discuss the war when we’re inside the city, to not offend. Truth is, we know the Empire is best for Whiterun, if it has to be one way or the other. Siding with the Stormcloaks would mean death for some of our leaders.”

The other three guards nodded with confidence, to which Teira cocked his head. His impression upon entering Whiterun was that the war divided its residents, like the feuding clans of Graymane and Battle-born. These guards, though a small enough band and perhaps speaking from bias, showed that a deeper unity was possible.

“Um, sorry for keeping you, Teira,” Jerin stammered. “I haven’t heard the stories of your dragon fight yet, but I take it that went well since you’re standing here uncharred. Before that, though, I just wanted to say you’re doing good work for our city. The Jarl trusts you, and for good reason. Keep it up, know we’re grateful, and let us buy you a mead the next time you come by.”

The rest of the guards nodded, more empathically, and one even offered a salute. Teira, again speechless, replied with a deep bow.

These guards respect me - even as a sort of friend to them - not merely from an ancient legend, but by watching my actions. That alone is worth fighting for, and forsaking the road I planned to follow.

After taking several paces to leave, Teira turned and called back to his newest friends, this time taking his former facade and declaring it as truth.

“I’ll head west, to Solitude, to join the Imperial Legion. Then I’ll come back to Whiterun, and take up your offer!”

Teira’s choice would be anything but easy. The Thalmor worked closely with the Empire in Skyrim, and it was the Imperial forces who captured Teira and tried to execute him as a rebel. He hoped the Legion would see his sincere loyalty in taking such risks, and trusted this choice to truly be in his best interests.

The sojourner nightblade left Riverwood, knowing the journey ahead would be a long one. Though the early morning remained dismal and overcast, the countryside poised for war, and the mountain heights haunted with dragons… Teira carried a dream-like vigor in his steps and a peace in his heart, and he considered that light enough for braving the shadows.