A quick introduction about the character, what they're about, what they do, themes etc. A quick introduction about the character, what they're about, what they do, themes etc. A quick introduction about the character, what they're about, what they do, themes etc. A quick introduction about the character, what they're about, what they do, themes etc.
A quick introduction about the character, what they're about, what they do, themes etc. A quick introduction about the character, what they're about, what they do, themes etc. A quick introduction about the character, what they're about, what they do, themes etc. A quick introduction about the character, what they're about, what they do, themes etc.
PART ONE: SKYRIM
CHAPTER ONE
The door to Riftens central Inn opened slowly before feminine figure clad in black robes reaching the floor stepped softly through. Her were features hidden behind a mask the stained same hue as her garb, allowing nothing save golden eyes lined with black kohl to be seen. She was a child of Yokuda, painfully alone in a strange land occupied by the distant ancestors her own people had near destroyed so long ago.
Yet in this moment they barely noticed, their histories lost to time. Reddened cheeks on pale skinned faces laughed merrily, ale flowed as mugs clinked together in celebratory toast over things she did not know. They were welcoming, they were kind. They smelt like wet hounds and yet maintained an odd charm unlike any she had seen before. It was careless, almost innocent.
N’ayla booked a room. A small chamber with a bed she assumed was lice free. The door had a lock yet the window wouldn’t open. Rust had crawled long ago over the hinge. It didn’t matter. She had made it after many days travel, she was safe. Despite the disapproval and xenophobic warnings of her well-meaning parents, it would seem a crown lady could survive alone away from her lands.
As she lay down to rest, the tavern seemed to grow louder. The walls were thick and yet drunken roars and volatile laughter still managed to drift through. A smile graced her lips. This was what it meant to travel, she could feel the exhilaration in her soul. The steady beat of her heart in tune with her Gods even if she was far away.
For in this moment there was something humbling yet grand. An inner discovery of strength she’d not known existed. It lingered and lurked on the edge of her mind as consciousness faded into well-earned rest. A confidence that came from doing something on her own and experiencing only character growth and blessings.
After all her research and all her study, the next few days would offer discovery and insight unlike any she had experienced before. She had found the tomb from her readings, she knew vaguely of its history. The tomes found in the Sentinel library had spoken in short of Priests from long ago. How they worshipped dragons, or one dragon. One with a story eerily similar to her own beloved Satakal. The World Skin. Nothing more than a myth, yet one she had the coin to explore.
CHAPTER TWO
She had found a guide. A local, perhaps. He seemed capable, he seemed to know the histories of the area well enough to take a stranger through the pass and to the tomb that had only been vaguely mentioned. It was a burial site that she assumed few knew about, which meant luck was on her side. The site was only a days ride from Riften and the horse she had hired had been bred for the conditions common in these lands.
This guide had wanted more than she was willing to pay, yet the price was little for the experience she was soon to have. Yet perhaps best of all, he seemed kind and well-mannered. Not dim-witted nor needlessly violent like was so often said of the Nords. He could hold an intelligent conversation, understood fairness and even carried a certain charm. A confidence she dearly needed.
The following morning they had headed out early. Two steeds, two travellers and enough food and drink for two nights. She had left her robes behind, favoring a simple traveling outfit of thick black leathers designed to hold heat. Upon her hips, twin blades curved in traditional Yokudan style.
The ride had been uneventful, yet for the first time, N’ayla had seen snow-covered mountains that seemed to reach the skies. There were thick forests of dark green both frightening and seductive, along with hidden paths between hills that must have lead to places of forgotten secrets amidst the mist. Her imagination ran rampant with childlike stories, yet her lips remained closed as pride deemed she share none of her heart.
They had slept under the stars. They had eaten a simple travelers meal and shared pleasant conversation. He did not seem a complicated man, yet his faith in his people and his Gods was honorable and warming. Eventually, N’ayla smiled more; she even laughed. To a crown any infidel or foreign race was untrustworthy, and her wary nature remained even as she gradually relaxed into something closer to comfort. Besides, the Nord shared her dislike of the Elves.
When morning arose, it was cloaked in thick mist and sprinkled with light rain. It would seem that was common in these lands, not enjoyable but beautiful in its own right. They had saddled their steeds and headed out, the Nord claiming the site of her curiosity was but a few hours away.
He had been correct. It did not take long to reach the place of question, though it was nothing like she had come to expect. Instead of stone arches towering into the clouds, there was a rocky hillside with naught but a pair of old rotting doors somehow still solid. Instead of grand statues shaped like the dragons of old, there was only more trees, a few rocks and that small insignificant entrance.
Perhaps somehow what they found was more appealing than the over romanticised tombs spoken about in scholarly journals and children's stories. And as the Nord opened those aging doors, her heart started to flutter. Yes, this was the place. She knew it even if she did not know how. It simply was.
It was dark. Not the kind of dark that brought comfort before rest, but the sort hiding foul mysteries with no want to be discovered. The tomb stank of ancient decay, corpse dust and stagnant air festering in its own humidity.
She listened to her guide speak, he did not know all secrets yet his voice was filled with passion for his culture, ancestors and Gods. Old tables lined the small corridor that lead deeper inward. Skulls of large creatures perched atop, with rusted tools and disintegrating fiber baskets and materials.
N’ayla wasted no time retrieving her journal. Of all the fascinating things, she was the most interested in the serpentine carvings that lined the walls. Ancient text had been carved deep into the stone, a language the woman did not know, yet one she swifty started to copy.
The Nord remained with bow drawn, guarding her as he stepped deeper inward. There was something sacred in this place, even in its silence. The sort that was not to be touched nor tampered with. Yet he did. His fingers reached to explore the runes engraved onto one stone sarcophagus. That was when they both heard a ‘thud’ coming from within.
And then another. And another. The stone tablet fell, eerie blue orbs flickered. N’ayla immediately pressed back. Her heart thumping, her nerves raw. They had spoken about the Draugr, yet she hadn’t actually thought they would ever see one. A strong woman of warrior birth could do much, but the sight of an ancient undead had her mind twisting and stomach in knots.
CHAPTER THREE
So many questions. Not her ancestors, and yet -someones-. A guardian of something, a body that one walked these lands. A father, a mother, a son? She knew fear in these moments, not just for herself but for the one with the eyes glowing blue. For the Nord who had already raised his axe and now grinned madly.
The Redguard had her weapons out within moments, but she could not act. Frozen, panic. Who is to say what kept her there, helpless while her guild cut through dried flesh and sinew. Even as it swung for her, she merely darted out the way; disarming the thing before attempting to find safe distance in the corridor behind.
There was a sickening crunch, the sound of axe on stone. Ancient tongue whispering something. A chant, a mantra. Until its eyes no longer glowed, its body hit the floor, lifeless. N’ayla remained blank, her heart thumping in her chest so loudly she swore it could have awoken others.
For a body was always sacred, even if it was not her own. And one kept moving with necromancy was one dishonored greatly. At least so she assumed. With her limited knowledge of these lands and customs. Without knowing why or how. The Redguard stepped forward and lowered herself, already whispering a prayer of respect in her native tongue.
She attempted to position the body modestly with its limbs no longer scattered and head upright. Moments later she was shoved to the floor, slammed into the dust as the Nord verbally attacked her honor, his hands wrapping around her throat. N’ayla knew not what she had done, but she attempted to scramble free and retrieve her swords. Defend herself.
Yet the man was too strong, his words harsh as they cut deep. He was furious. No. He was mad. Insane. She attempted to crawl, tried to shove him away. Tried to justify her actions. But she would not apologize for something as simple as this. Strength and pride smoldered in her voice, but the Nords hands eventually found her throat, they wrapped tight and did not let go until her eyes had fluttered closed.
N’ayla awoke later in a strange bed covered in winter furs. His home, this she discovered soon as he stepped through the door with firewood under one arm. Never in her life had the crown female been this afraid. She said little, and he proclaimed the door remained unlocked. Yet when she gathered the strength to escape, she found him blocking the exit. Swords snatched, bag over shoulder: N’ayla used her training to rush him without mercy. Her blades sharp as the lower of the two sliced through his armor and cut deep into his gut.
It was all a blur, a hazy fear filled moment of sheer determination to survive. To leave. Out into the snowstorm where freedom called her name. She would not stay there another moment but chance the climate and unknown in her hurry to escape.
CHAPTER FOUR
There were no stars, the sky was awash with ice and snow that seemed endless as it cloaked the horizon. N’ayla looked toward the heavens and yet nothing looked down at her. It was cold, numbing. Her leathers water soaked and boots leaking. At this point, the woman could barely feel her own legs. She knew nothing of these lands, not the plants to eat nor mountains to guide the way. Yet instinct screamed one thing and one thing only. Keep moving, she had to keep moving.
There would be no rest until she found warmth and shelter, yet her muscles screamed and legs trembled. Each step was agony, yet each step was a commitment to the life she was yet to live. Eventually, the storm passed; allowing traces of familiar mountains to span outward through the growing mist. She knew their shapes because she had been here yesterday, and somewhere within them was that tomb yet to be explored. In these lands, the burial crypt of forgotten Nords might have been the only thing she knew. It was where she headed. It was sheltered and potentially even offered salvation.
Hours passed. Darkness threatened. With clothing still damp the young woman did not have long until hypothermia set in. She knew enough to guess she’d not survive long should that be the case. Yet she still strode on through mud and snow, aiming for the mountains that had grown closer yet remained ever so far away. N’ayla had tried, she truly had. All her strength, all her courage. Her prayers unanswered, she slowed. Each breath scraped across her lungs like shattered ice. Her muscles twitched before her legs finally gave out.
There slumped in the watery snow, the crown female known as N’ayla curled inward. She could finally see the stars, but her vision was starting to blur. Thoughts came and went, drifting listlessly with none managing to stick. Her entire being hurt, yet soon enough the shivering of her form slowed too. And when she closed her eyes she did so with a smile. Yes, her parents had been right. These lands were no place for a child of Yokuda. Strangers were never to be trusted. Infidels were worse than the plague.
She did not hear the clatter of horse hooves nor the concerned chatter of woman. She didn’t even feel her body lifted into the back of a cart, wrapped in thick furs many layers tight. Time passed where N’ayla lived only in a world of dreams, her soul adrift in the stars. It wasn’t the Far Shores, yet in this great universe, she had certainly felt something. Perhaps it was Tu’whacca’s gentle touch.
Dying, these unknown strangers transported the dangerously ill body of the Redguard woman back to Riften. She remembers little but will never forget the kindness of their intentions. It was hypothermia, N’ayla was lucky she did not lose her toes. Hours passed in a blur, moons came and suns rose. A week in total was spent bedded somewhere in the mages guild, looked after by scholars of magic and mystery alike. They said that in the coming days she would be fit to travel home, saved by the arcane. Rescued by them.
“They start by sobering, purging themselves of shameful behavior.” He stated in gruff reply, attention never leaving the leather bound book that rested between his sword-calloused fingers. Azhar’s features stank of barely concealed disapproval.
N’ayla broke contact, turned her head and stared upward at the domed arches above. She could see the sweep of violent sands behind the thick stained glass that spilled color even as it depicted an array of ancient Yokudan heroes and Gods.
“I ask only for a friend.” The words dragged lifelessly from her lips, which soon after formed a tight straight line.
Azhar; Patriarch of the at-Khaja household and crown gallant, smiled briefly as he watched his daughter turn away. “I would hope she has family to lean on and that the dishonor she brought to her name is not beyond repair.”
N’ayla did not reply, she had closed her eyes and delved inward. Inward to the depths of her heart still aching behind a fragile barrier of self-created glass. There she almost felt numb, yet something still beat with a burning passion that was spreading like wildfire through the ethereal veins of her soul.
“Father, may I have some coin?” She asked falling slack back in his general direction. The privilege and entitlement of a true no shira, a crown daughter. Her tone had taken on a certain sweetness, as did her smile. Azhar had often seen that look, he knew its meaning and he knew he could not say no.
“Do use it to help your friend, Amun.” He reluctantly growled as his fingers turned the page of his book. “We are too few to be shamed or dishonored.” With interest waning, the Gallant returned to his endless pages. Strategy, tactic, and warfare.
And the woman; she promised innocently as was customary, a part of the ritual when begging coin of her father. Her form uncurled like a recently-warmed serpent as her naked toes touched down upon the carpeted floor. “I need to rest, see you in a few days beloved Father.” Eloquently spoken, the young woman swept from the room with silken robes flowing behind her, light as heavens themselves.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sturdy hickory shutters clattered against the desert-dust washed glass, and sand collected in the corners of the window frame, funneling down like miniature rivers over the homes tuscany stained walls. The wind howled like the wraiths of old Yokudan ancestors singing mournfully amidst the dunes, as if to step outside would be to offer yourself wholly to the ancients that dwelled in memories long since forgotten.
The home's exterior was a bastille against the unforgiving desert climate. The biting sands could not devour the flesh of those nestled within. Smoke wisped from the chimney, lost immediately to time as the gale outside continued its assault against the world of mortals. Yet the inside remained warm and sheltered with thick walls muffling the chorus of wailing winds and battering desert dust.
N’ayla lay like a dune-cat stretched atop hot shingle roof, lazily sprawled on a vibrantly tapestried settee. Her arm swung lazily with fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass empty of contents, hair trailed down the delicate fabric and brushed against the plush rug covering the smooth stone floor. Her gaze drifted across the living chamber until it settled upon her fathers boots, positioned squarely below his own chair across the way.
“Father, if one has been greatly wronged, how best should they regain their honor?” The crown female inquired softly, her voice a harmony of exhaustion and distant thoughts. A voice smaller than usual.
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Finally home at her Parents estate. Safe and sound.
