Dez se Sadon Dovah Vahlok (Fate of the Dragon Grey Wardon)

This idea came to me while discussing random Skyrim things, The Dovahkiin running around Ferelden causing all sorts of trouble? Fun fun! It will span (barring being lazy) all of Origins, its DLC and Awakenings.

Dragon Age Origins and all its associated characters, items and ideas belong to Bioware and EA.

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and all associated belong to Bethesda.

Chapter One - Dragons Calling and Warden's troubles

"Thalmor scum, perish!" howled the deep baritone voice of the armored warrior as his demonic sword clashes against an ethereal glowing blade. The armored warrior's immense strength quickly overpowered the slender robed warrior, forcing him to stagger backwards, attempting to contain his balance. Backpedalling quickly, the robed figure mutters mystic words under his breath and swipes his arm across the battlefield. Moments later, another ethereal form appears in a flash and suddenly a massive glowing troll besets upon the armored warrior.

Despite the creature's ominous and frightening stature, the warrior slams his shield across the creatures face and rakes the demonic sword across its throat, ending the conjured troll's brief existence, its corpse disappearing in a wisp of smoke. A throaty growl emanates behind the armored warriors helmet as he stares down the robed figure, both circling each other, eyes focused on each other, oblivious to the battle raging below them.

"Quite a feat for such an ignorant race such as yourself, Nord, you managed to convince the other rubbish to follow your banner. Enjoy your title for now High-King for your pathetic race will ultimately be underfoot of the glorious elven empire."

A snort echoes from beneath the helmet as the armored warrior takes a slow deliberate step closer to the robed figure. "That Elven arrogance really is trying my patience, why don't we halt this pointless dance and I will send you to your ancestors." Without another word, the two warriors continue their dance sword clashing against conjured steel, fire and ice erupting from the elf's fingertips attempting to keep the massive armored form back. His shield effortlessly blocks the combined elements as he charges forward his demonic sword arcing from below and biting into the robed man's chest, a deep gash from stomach to chest is the result as the robed figure stumbles backwards catching his balance on a tree. His pristine black robes stained with sweat, dirt and copious amounts of blood, shortly his hands glow white pressed against his gushing wound as the massive warrior quickly closes the distance sword held aloft rocketing towards the elf's head.

A small part experience and a large part of instinct force the injured elven warrior to roll away from the tree not a second too soon as the demonic sword bites deeply into the weathered wood. A growl of frustration exerts as the armored warrior utilizes his corded muscles to tear the blade from the wood's prison. Three sharp noises pierce the battlefield as gracefully crafted missiles pierce the black plate and imbed into his flesh. Whipping his head towards the source, he sucks in a breath.

Charging towards the duel, three Elven archers come to the aid of their general. However, before they can notch another arrow the thunderous voice of the armored warrior bellows out.

"FUS RO DAH!" A hurricane-like gust lifts the Elven archers off the ground, flings them effortlessly off the cliff, and down into the massive brawl below. Their screams of terror coincide with the echoing roar to sound the final symphony of their lives.

Fueled by pain and anger, the injured warrior rips the sword from the tree, his left arm hanging limply at his side, weighed down by his secured shield. Stalking forward, the glare beneath his helmet is not lost to the recovered Elf as he readies a spell in his hands.

"So that is the power of the Thu'um. Most impressive, I must admit. However, that power will not save you or your barbarous race from our glory. Surrender your war and I may allow you to die quickly, dog."

A barking laugh echoes from the warrior as he holds his sword up in defiance; "Shut your mouth, Thalmor scum. Your head will adorn a pike outside the gates of my hold along with the rest of your conceded people."

A sneer crosses the Elf's face as he thrusts his hands forward, a massive surge of electricity erupting from his palms and racing towards the injured warrior but is simply evaded, allowing the warrior close the distance between them. His demonic blade, attempting to find its place in the Elf's head, once again is intercepted by the glowing conjured blade. Another deadly dance of swords persists between the two skilled combatants, both fighting for their cause and homeland. The Elven warrior's lack of skill in the blade showing as the injured Nord quickly overcomes him in a brutal display of merit that, with a final savage strike, shatters the conjured blade sending it back to its plane of existence.

The loss of his blade and power behind the swing knocks the Thalmor agent off his feet. Briefly dazed by the fall, he barely has enough time to erect a ward as searing hot flames expel from behind the warrior's helmet. The heat licking around the shield a testament to the attack's ferocity, thankfully the attack ended shortly before the spell had run its course.

Yol Toor Shul, or Flame breath as it is known in the tongues of man, was an iconic attack of the Dov. It was a devastating attack that burned all in its path. However, it was a tiring attack and left the warrior fatigued his head swimming from the pain and blood loss. The melee was dragging on, the Elf pulling out spell after spell out of his sleeve to counter his sword and shouts. The Altmer's engrained preference towards the mystic arts allowed him to regenerate magicka quickly and thus continue to harass the Nord with ranged spells, keeping him from finishing the fight. He briefly entertained summoning Odahviing to finish the tenacious Elf off but dismissed it as swiftly as it came; the dragon was already engaged in battle against the Thalmor's agents further south.

While the Nord caught his breath, it gave the Altmer ample time to regain his footing and put some distance between them. Though he loathed admitting it, the Nordic king was winning this fight as the combined might of his sword and Thu'um wore away at his defenses. He needed backup and fast, and with a quickened pace the Thalmor mage retreats from the duel.

Shaking the encroaching darkness from his vision, the armored Nord spies his prey escaping, and with a bellowing roar pursues him, armor clattering as he gives chase. "You won't escape Ondolemar! Face your death with courage!"

The Nord, quickly closing the distance with his large powerful legs, despite his rapidly depleting lifeblood, elicits a curse from the fleeing Altmer. In no possible scenario could he get to help before the armored soldier overtook him. A final desperate strategy crosses his mind as he slides to a stop and reaches into his robe withdrawing a black crystal. Holding it outstretched, a string of strange words slip past his lips, praying to Auri-El for success. The words of the ancients ignite a force within the crystal wrapping his body in a strange glow, it seems though that the deities would spurn Ondolemar's prayer as the encompassing shadow of the Nord breaks him from his mystic trance.

Ondolemar could only watch as the demonic sword rockets down towards his head. Instead of the bite of its edge against his flesh, an unknown force draws the blade down onto the crystal. Everything around the two warriors mutes as the sword contacts the crystal, only a faint steady hum rising from the two objects. The hum tempo increased swiftly until the forest echoes a deafening whine, the black crystal shines gold for a moment before cracks litter its pristine surface. Whatever energy was contained within the crystal's protective casing was suddenly and violently released in a blinding light and the last sound the Thalmor agent heard before the light engulfed him was the howl of the Nord and his own panicked shout.

A hoarse cough rips Ondolemar from the embrace of the night as his vision begins to clear, ears still ringing from the strange explosive discharge. Though still dazed from it, Ondolemar can make out the charred remains of several trees. It seemed that when the Nord damaged the soul gem its energy released with devastating results. A victorious smirk graces his lips, as the warrior's form is nowhere in sight. A sinister chuckle slips through this teeth followed directly by an indescribable pain flooding his Elven form. Slender fingers trace his chest slowly; the sticky feeling of his life fluid engorging the cloth robe underneath his fingers, the digits slow egress up suddenly halts at the sensation of a rough, jagged protrusion.

A horrified gasp escapes his lips as Ondolemar's eyes slowly trail down, stopping at the brown and red bulge jutting from his robe; "N-no" he manages to croak out as stares disbelievingly at the tree branch. Hands glowing white, a healing spell, something to stave off death's hand but Ondolemar cannot keep the spell active, his concentration broken by pain and diminishing life. In a desperate final push, his hands shine like the sun before diminishing, magicka leaving him snuffing out the spell, hands losing their strength and slumping to his side in a puddle of his own blood. The Thalmor wizard's blood coated the emerald green grass in a sickly brown, dousing the encroaching flames.

"Lord Thorer!" the cries of several soldiers echo throughout the forest, the battle long since won in their favor. Hours of searching the forested cliff gave them no indication of their king's location, only signs that he had indeed engaged the Thalmor General.

"General Tullius! I've found something!"

The call shook the Imperial General from the tree he was examining; a distinct gouge in the tree was a clear sign that the Skyrim lord had waged his battle here. The quickness of his stride belayed his stoicism. Closing the distance, he comes upon a grim scene; a large section of the forest lay charred and barren from an unknown force, several meters from the site lay a single figure slumped against a large oak trunk. The distinct black and gold clothing was a clear sign that the deceased was not the missing High-King of Skyrim, but his opponent. Kneeling next to corpse, careful to avoid the copious puddle of blood, and pulling the Elf's head up, the Altmer's face now unobstructed by hair and hood, a snort escapes the aged Legionnaire as he drops the head.

"Ondolemar; seems like that bastard finally got what was coming to him. Shame it was a tree and not an axe."

Leathery wings breaking through the air as a massive shadow blots out the peaking moons, leaving the bewildered legionaries frozen in place. Memories of the Dragon Crisis still fresh in their minds, and despite the Dov pledging to assist the Dovahkiin in his war against the Mer many of the neophyte troops still feared their wraith. Wind gusts generated from the flapping of his massive wings the ancient Dovah lands heavily in the dirt, a curtain of leaves filling the skyline.

His men staggering back from the massive creature, most only knowing of the mythic creatures from rumor and legend, Tullius barely acknowledges the beast's arrival, introduced to the ancient dragon long ago; enjoying many interesting discussion on numerous occasions. Paarthurnax giving the frightened Muz little heed, examines the scorched landscape carefully before resting his gaze upon the Aldmerian General, though he would never speak of it to any other then the Dovahkiin, the stories of the elf had given the beast a desire to end the Mer'slife just as the Dovahkiin had desired.

His voice, deep and lyrical rumbles through the wooded plains as he examines the Altmer's corpse, a discerning gleam in his eye, "So the Mer meet his end in battle, the Dovahkiin spoke to me praying for a moment to rend him many times."

The dragon's eyes focuses intently on the robed corpse before drawing in a gust of air, exhaling it moments later with enough force to rustle the branches. A disapproving grunt echoes from the throat of the beast as narrows his gaze on the corpse.

"Magics, as old as the Dov, that fool Ondolemar tampered with forces he could not control and paid for it with his very life."

"It seems so." The old legionnaire mutters before turning his head, coming face to face with the huge form of Paarthurnax.

"Can you see any sign of Thorer? We can't locate his body and I doubt he'd quit the field while the battle still progressed."

Though Tullius had no way of knowing for sure, the gleam in the old dragon's eye had to be one of amusement. He was experienced in reading the expressions of men and mer. Not ancient children of Akatosh.

A throaty growl came from the elder dragon as he craned his head to the sky, watching the twin moons, Masser and Secunda crest over the canopies.

"The Dovahkiin lives yet, but he is no longer in this world but do not fret Tullius. The legend of the Dovahkiin is far from over, take heart and know he will return one day. Ahkrin Dovahkiin. "

Before the general could voice his question, the massive wings of the Greybeard leader whip gusts that force the legionnaire general to shield his eyes as he takes to the air, any further discussion between the two effectively silenced by the dragon's departure.

With a snort, Tullius brushes a small film of dust from his armor and casts his gaze back to the elf's corpse, 'I pray to Talos that you are right. This war cannot be won without the Nords and I cannot guarantee they will remain on the field without their king.'

Shaking the doubt from his mind, he straightens his posture and the authoritative imperial general returns; "All right! Pack up and move out! We push to Kvatch and expel these Elven bastards out of our land!"

Choruses of affirmative grunts are his answer and, without sparing the corpse another glance, General Tullius of the IV Legion continues the Second Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion.

A light that would dwarf the rays of the sun filled his eyes, blinding him to everything else. The wailing of his prey soon eclipsed by his own roar of pain, was this sorcery the Elf's doing? He could not remember, the only thing that occupies his mind was the searing pain flooding his body whether from the trio of arrows that still riddled his shoulder or the burning light that seemed to illuminate even the darkness of his vision.

A low grunt streams from his lips as the armored warrior's consciousness floods back to him, memories of his last waking moment finally seem to snap him from the gentle embrace of the night. Pain was the first thing he registered, the missiles still lodged deep within his body. With no small feat of strength, he forced himself to his knees. Eyes scanning the forest, while nothing of note to dissuade him, he swore that he was no longer in the dense forests of the Imperial homeland. The surroundings, although possessing foliage similar to Cyrodiil, it felt foreign to the armored Nord. Using his sword, he forced his weary body off the ground. Eyes scanning the forest, drawing in the sights and trying to gain his bearings, the familiar sound of steel cutting air interrupts him.

The broad head of a battle-axe buries itself into the soil next to him, the diminutive wielder bears it's fangs in rage, ripping the axe from the ground; it rears it back for another strike. Only to find the bite of the warrior's blade against its throat, a fountain of pungent black fluid erupting from the space its head once occupied.

Eyes narrowed at the strange creature but once again, his thoughts are interrupted by the advancing howls of more of them, this time a group of four human-like creatures standing roughly the same height as men charged towards him. Each was wielding weapons of similar poor design as the diminutive one's axe. An aggravated growl escapes his lips, drawing in a short breath he lets lose a defying shout, the ancient words of the Dov echoing through the trees. A force unseen barrels into the charging group stripping the weapons from their hands and sending the unsuspecting two sprawled on the ground. Without missing a beat, the warrior closes the distance, disemboweling the standing creatures.

His armored boot struck another across the face, spilling more of the pungent fluid onto his armor. The final one scrambling to regain its weapon discovers the same booted foot crushing its hand into the dirt. Taking a moment to examine the creature, the Nord cannot identify it, 'A Daedra perhaps? No, they are nothing like them.'

The creature, futility attempting to remove the offending boot from its arm, thrashes violently at the appendage, howling in pain and rage, trying the warrior's patience until another swift swing of his sword ends its struggle.

With the rush of battle rage ebbing away his remaining strength, he stumbles backwards, landing heavily against a tree, narrowly missing the trio of slender projectiles still embedded in his shoulder. The stifling pain that once accompanied the missiles now settling in as a dull throb, concern flooded his mind. If he didn't get them removed and the wound treated he would have more to worry about then being lost in a strange forest.

Rumblings from deeper in the tree line shifted his priorities once again; the beasts seemed to smell his blood and wished for more. The Nordic warrior, never one to disappoint a battle-ready foe, pushes off the tree to stand ready; a death in battle was preferred to bleeding out or succumbing to disease. Gripping the demonic blade tightly in his hand, he prepares to charge off to meet the creatures in a glorious end. A stern strong grip on his shoulder halts his advance, whipping his head around; a gentle but paternal voice greets him, low in a whisper.

"It would not be wise to engage them this way. They would overwhelm you swiftly." An older man clad in simple but effective armor, twin swords clasped across his back, stood behind him. A second warrior, hidden by the trees but not from the Nord's vision, kept a trained eye out for the creatures.

Dismissing the older man's concern with a snort the Nord shrugs the hand from his shoulder; "A true Nord does not flee at the sight of a foe, he fights until he cannot lift a blade and keeps fighting until his final breath."

Not one to be deterred, the older warrior steps next to larger man, standing half a head below the injured warrior; "I understand but would you not prefer to face your enemy at your best, to engrave in their minds the true ferocity of your people?"

Any argument the Nordic warrior had prepared falters at the older man's words, beneath his helmet, he casts a tired glare at the approaching horde.

"Ser Duncan! We must leave now, the horde approaches!" the low hiss of Duncan's young charge cuts the silence.

Before Duncan can continue his argument, a tired sigh erupts from Nord; "Your words ring true, Duncan was it? I will acquiesce but know that I hold no trust of you, or your companion."

An understanding nod, "Do you need assistance?"

Sheathing his strange blade the larger man scoffs and follows the retreating forms of Duncan's companions; "Tis but a scratch, I've had worse."

A mirthful smile graces the older man's lips as he follows the injured warrior, the oncoming horde none the wiser to their escape.

The arduous journey from the wilds was stressful enough on a healthy traveler. Further compounded by his injuries and the fact he had been in a battle for days prior finally took its toll on the armored Nord. Not more than a day's walk from their destination did his body finally falter. If not for the helpful strength of Duncan, he would have found himself face down in the mud. Struggling a bit, the older warrior leans his newest companion on his shoulder, voice strained by his weight, he addresses the slender warrior who dashed to his aid.

"Daveth, hurry forward and have a healer prepared."

"Right away, Duncan." The lad accepts eagerly before dashing forward, leaving the two alone on the road, a stifling silence lying thick in the air.

The uncomfortable was silence broken by the strained voice of the injured Nord; "You never told me where we were heading."

Duncan considered his answer carefully, a sly smile graces his bearded face; "And you never told me your name Ser. Perhaps we can barter a trade?"

From beneath the helmet, Duncan could literally hear the warrior's lips curl into a sneer at his joke. Moments more pass in silence until he answered.

"Thorer, Amon Thorer of Ralfalk"

"I see Ser Thorer well we are-"

"Amon" The Nordic native interrupts, seemingly annoyed at the formal addressing.

"Excuse me?"

"Just call me Amon, you have no reason nor need to address me with formality."

Glancing at the strange warrior leaning heavily against his shoulder Duncan could not help but let his lips curl upwards, "As you wish Amon, to answer your early inquiry our destination is Ostagar. The armies of King Cailan Theirin have gathered with the surrounding vassals an army to battle the Darkspawn, the creatures you encountered earlier."

"Those creatures, darkspawn, hold true to the name you have bestowed upon them. Never in my time have I battled against such malice without purpose. A lofty goal indeed, I can only assume that is why you have carried me this far, you wish me to assist in this battle that is brewing."

Duncan did not answer him, instead focusing upon the towering gates that surrounded the old fortress, dilapidated from centuries of disuse and exposure did not distract from the splendor it radiated.

"The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. It is fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within the forest. The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself."

Crossing the long bridge overlooking the forest, they finally reach the encampment; waiting at the entrance is a regal man in massive golden armor, a stark contrast to twin guards standing ready to defend him. Surprise lights up Duncan's face at the man's presence; "King Cailan? I did not expect-"

A bright smile crosses the King's face at Duncan's bemused tone; "A royal welcome? I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

Shaking his head with a mirthful smile, Duncan would shake the King's hand but the need to keep the injured Nord on his feet took precedence; "Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious! The other Wardens told me you'd found a promising recruit. I take it this is he?" Cailan inquiries, eyeing the large armored figure leaning against his friend then the crestfallen look upon the aged man's face.

"Sadly, no, your majesty. Teryn Cousland and his wife are dead. Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had I not escaped, he would've told you any story he wished."

Surprise floods Cailan's face as he paces back and forth, clearly not expecting such distressing news. Turning on his heel, he locks his gaze with the older Warden; "Fergus Cousland had already arrived with Highever's men, we were just awaiting his father. I... can scarcely believe it! How could Howe think he would get away with such treachery? As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice."

Dismissing those thoughts from his mind, he returns his gaze to the armored warrior, "Then who is this warrior, Duncan?"

"This, your majesty is Amon Thorer of Ralfalk. I discovered him engaged in battle with the darkspawn; the horde is pressing closer each day."

"I see. You certainly look as if you can handle yourself in battle, Amon Thorer of Ralfalk. Perhaps once you have been tended to we can talk more. I must, however, cut this short. I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies."

Amon dips his head respectfully but does not answer the King, his wounds and fatigue beginning to wear his consciousness away. Sensing his distress, Duncan departs one further piece of news to the King.

"Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week."

"Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory. We've won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different. However, I truly must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!"

Duncan and Amon watch the enthusiastic King disappear from sight before continuing further on, into the main camp. Amon's voice, nothing more than a hoarse whisper echoing from within his helmet; "He mentioned Grey Wardens, what are you hiding from me old man?"

"Later Amon, once you have been tended to, I will explain everything. Ah, it seems Daveth has found you a healer."

A short distance away, the thin young man who accompanied Duncan earlier, stands on his toes, waving frantically in the air to garner their attention, at his side is an older woman clad in a simple brown robe. A gentle caring look spread across her slightly wrinkled features. If not for the silver grey hair adorning her head, she could be mistaken for a woman half her age.

"Gud faen! Watch it, you witch!" Amon's gruff voice howls out in agony, attracting the attention of several passing soldiers, who either watch the scene in amusement or sympathy. In response to his curses, the source of his agony frowned clearly displeased with her patient's inability to remain idle. Despite her tender treatment, his constant fidgeting served to further his discomfort eliciting another round of curses, all in a tongue she could not easily identify.

"It is your own fault for squirming, now sit still so I can apply the salve properly, or do you wish for me to start over?"

Amon's only answer was a growl and mutterings. Taking that as compliance, she continues her doting, carefully removing the final slender shaft from his shoulder. Examining the strange arrow for a moment before tossing it aside, she dribbles a small amount of water over the wound. Thankfully, the strange missiles had not injured anything important and the accompanying numbness that had rendered his arm ineffective was merely a simple poison, applied to the missiles' tips, once removed and the wound flushed, the effects had diminished. Amon hisses in protest to the waters invasion of his open wound, this however changes into a sigh of relief as the restorative magic that surrounds the elder woman's hands help to accelerate the process. Three gaping holes in the tanned, scarred flesh now appear as blotchy circular marks; prepping a bandage with a restorative salve soaked into it, she wraps it carefully around his shoulder and chest, his chest piece taken by Duncan to be refurbished by the quartermaster.

"There we are now, I have removed the shafts and sealed the wound but I wouldn't strain it too much. It still needs to heal on its own." The aged healer chastises, a motherly tone creeping into her voice as she pats his back.

"I doubt he'll listen to you serah, he doesn't seem the type to listen to anyone." The amused voice of the rogue Daveth makes itself known as he watched the whole ordeal with barely contained mirth.

At the sound of his voice, Amon's head whipped to face him, a single ashy grey eye boring a hole into his with a glare that could melt steel. His helmet removed along with his chest piece gave the healer and rogue full view of his features.

A long scar tracing vertically across his left eye, the iris a milky white, damaged by whatever caused the scar, accompanying it are three thick lines trailing the right side of his face, seemingly caused by a wild animal's claws, both scars old and long since healed telling a tale of the warrior's many battles. Long untamed chestnut brown hair spilling across his back and upon his chin more hair rests, long and as unkempt as those that rest upon his dome. Together they paint a frightening picture of an imposing man, the glare directed at the young rogue relents his amused attack, raising his hands in surrender.

A pat on his back signaled the older woman had finished her tending, allowing him to rise from the stool he was occupying, for what seemed like an eternity. A grunt of relief escapes his lips as his joint pop back into place. His large form both tall and wide dwarfs the older woman's, though no fear at his size was evident on her features as she hands him a simple shirt to slip over his bare chest.

"I do not doubt that Daveth, I have seen so many of his type brush off wounds as if they were the bites of insects, only to be dragged back. He is a big boy though, I will stop mothering him. He has much to do, I suppose."

While the two share a laugh at his expense, Amon busied himself flexing and un-flexing his fingers. A small twinge of numbness remained but he had full motion back and that was his only concern. Without his shield, he would be less effective in combat, and if the rumors of the horde were true, he would need to be at full strength to banish these monsters back to whatever realm they were birthed. A brief thought of home filtered into his mind before it squashing it as quickly as it had come. His men were not helpless and Tullius could lead the allied armies in his absence. Skyim would miss its King but they would persevere until he returned, for now he had to focus on the immediate threat. Once that was taken care of, he could then inquire about a way home.

Ceasing the ministrations of his fingers, Amon turned to face the older woman, and without a word, he dipped his head in a bow. Clearly confusing her as he spoke; "I thank you for your assistance in this. If there is anything I can do to repay it, you need not hesitate to ask."

A maternal look graced her features as she waved his gratitude off, "Think nothing of it dear, just keep safe in the upcoming battle and that is all the thanks I will need."

Her smile seemed to be infectious as even Amon's lips to curl upwards slightly, but the telltale sounds of chainmail rustling removed it from his lips as he turned to see Duncan approaching. Wynne, sensing no need for her presence any longer, bids the warriors farewell and returned to her duties with the mages. Duncan arriving just as she left, watches her departure for a moment before turning his attention back to his two charges.

"I see she has finished her tending. How is your arm, Amon? Better?" A curt nod and a grunt is his affirmative.

"That's good, the smith informed me that your armor was only slightly damaged and would be ready within the hour. In the meantime, Daveth." Turning his gaze to the young rogue, who upon being the center of attention straightened his posture slightly, the early teases gone. "Seek out Ser Jory and meet me by the fires. It is time to discuss the Joining."

Receiving his order Daveth jogs off to find the third recruit, disappearing from view in moments. Duncan turns his gaze back to Amon, confusion clearly written on the larger man's face despite the stoicism.

"Amon, if you could seek out Alistair, a Grey Warden, and bring him to the fires near the kennels. He should be past the quartermaster's tents. I know I haven't answered your questions yet but I will reveal everything once we are all gathered, please be patient."

Amon narrows his eyes slightly and studies the older Warden's face for a moment before relenting. Turning on his heel, he proceeds off to find the misplaced Warden. Slipping the simple white shirt on, he makes his way towards the Warden's location, clad only in the simple shirt, boots and greaves. His helmet, gauntlets and chest piece were cleared of blood and repaired while his wounds were tended for. Amon felt naked without the sleek black armor covering his form; the ebony plate had protected him for many years, ever since he first constructed the armor, back during the turbulent months of the Dragon Crisis.

The Daedric longsword he wielded with masterful skill rested with his shield in Duncan's care. Though he had his reservations about relinquishing them to a man he barely knew, Amon supposed that if the older man truly wished to do him harm then he wouldn't have wasted the time to assist him.

His only weapon, aside from the basic destruction spells and his Thu'um was the curved dagger he received from the former leader of Skyrim's chapter of the Dark Brotherhood. The Blade of Woe, Astrid had called it. A nasty little blade that seemed to siphon life from the bite of the blade.

The trip through the past occupied the time needed to clear the distance, his arrival greeted by an argument between a man clad in robes similar to Wynne's, who he assumed was a Mage, and an armored fair-haired man, who had to be the other Grey Warden Duncan sent him to fetch. All-star? Allienster? The Warden's name escaped him but his errand was simply to find the man, not befriend him.

"What is it now? Haven't the Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?"

Agitation clear in the mage's voice as he laces his arms across his chest, a glare leveled at the young man before him; if he noticed Amon's arrival, he did not acknowledge him.

"I simply came to deliver a message from the Revered Mother, Ser mage. She desires your presence."

As if it was possible, further agitation creeps into the mage's voice at the mention of the women; "What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens-by the King's Orders, I might add!"

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" A lip curling into a sly smile as the warrior's tone loses its formal neutral tone and slips into a more sardonic one.

The mage however is hardly amused by his tone, "Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"

"Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message." The young man barely contained the urge to roll his eyes at the Mage, his increasing annoyance beginning to wear on his nerves as well.

"Your glibness does you no credit."

"Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you...the grumpy one."

Throwing his hands into the air, the mage finally relents to the warrior's demands, "Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must!" Pushing past Amon without even sidestepping the Nord, "Get out of my way, fool!"

A curse formed on Amon's lips as he turned to give the mage a word or two, the voice of the sardonic warrior halts his biting reply however.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

A single brow arches towards his hair at the sarcastic reply; the young Warden was beginning to remind Amon of another. 'Not a compliment,' he reminded himself.

"You are a strange man."

As if the man did not hear him, he continues his thought; "It's like a tea party; we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about."

A sigh escapes Amon's lips as he could see how the mage could become irritated so quickly; The Warden's antics were tiresome.

"Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

Fixing the man with a flat look, Amon let the question linger for a moment before answering; "No."

A look of delight leaps to his face, "Ah, good! Then that must make you Duncan's new recruit, I suppose. Glad to meet you. As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining. Oh yes, my name is Alistair by the way, Duncan mentioned your name was Aedan I believe?"

"No. Amon Thorer of Ralfalk." Amon held up his hand as Alistair opened his mouth to greet him; "There will be time for pleasantries later, Alistair. For now Duncan has summoned us to the fires, near the kennels. He mentioned something about the Joining."

Slightly put off by the larger man's abrupt tone, he nevertheless nodded his head and proceeded to follow him as they made their way towards the meeting place. As they passed the through the camp Amon noticed the quartermaster wave him over. Without another word, he broke away from Alistair and stood before the quartermaster.

"Ser, I have finished repairing and cleaning your armor. A simple job, despite it's fine craftsmanship and unique materials. I would be quite pleased if you could tell me where you came upon such fine armor!" the glint in the man's eye caused Amon's lips to curl upwards. Like a child with a shiny new toy, his curiosity uninhibited by his age.

"Perhaps later my good man, I am in a hurry."

"Ah yes of course, forgive me Ser, your armor is over there." The quartermaster gestures to a crate where his breastplate, helm and gauntlets rest. The armor was buffed to a mirror-like sheen. Accomplished skill allowed him to slip the armor on with little trouble. The familiar weight of the dark armor lifted the weight of doubt. Now all he needed was his sword and shield, then he could take on anything. Feeling immortal again, he defers from sliding the helmet over his features, instead keeping it under his arm until he needed it.

With a curt nod, Amon continues his journey to the large bonfire, noticing four figures waiting; Duncan, the mirthful rogue Daveth, Alistair and another warrior he could only assume was the Ser Jory that Duncan had sent the rogue to fetch.

"Ah, you are finally here, with your armor as well, good. I'll hope you are ready to begin preparations." Turning his head he regards Alistair with a knowing look; "Assuming, of course, Alistair is done riling up the mages."

Shrugging his shoulders, he cannot help but smirk; "What can I say, the Revered Mother ambushed me. With the way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army"

"She forced you to sass the mage did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."

"You are right Duncan. I apologize."

Returning his gaze to the three warriors before him; "Now then, since you are all here we can begin. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks; the first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit."

"By Talos' hold, I haven't agreed to do anything yet. You still owe me an explanation."

"Of course, my apologizes. You, along with the others," Duncan gestures to the two warriors next to him. "Have been selected to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens, as Warden it is our sole duty to battle the Darkspawn."

Lacing his arms across his armored chest, Amon levels Duncan with a flat look, "And? There are many organizations formed to battle a specific threat. What makes yours special enough to convince me to join?"

Despite the young warrior's dismissive tone, Duncan could tell he was curious; "The Darkspawn are not a simple nest of spiders. These beasts are a plague that will consume the world and it is the duty of all Grey Wardens to prevent that."

Amon's stoic mask remained but on the inside, he could not help but roll his eyes at the claim, 'Like I haven't heard that line before.'

With a huff, Amon forces his arms from his chest, slipping his helmet over his head; "Fine, not like it'll kill me to join your merry band."

A knowing gleam shines in Duncan's eyes at the mention but he chooses not to elaborate, "Now, your second task. There was once a grey warden archive in the wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls had been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.

A curt nod from the junior Grey Warden is Duncan's affirmative. Daveth's curious voice breaks the momentary reprieve; "What are these scrolls exactly?"

"Old treaties, promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. They were once only considered formalities. With so many forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be a good idea to have something to remind them with."

Amon raps his fingers against his armor, his patience clearly running thin at not only the lengthy explanation but also the lull in combat. His Nord blood was screaming for violence.

"So find some paper and shed some blood, simple enough. Can we go now?" An impatient tone evident in his voice, causing the elder Warden to smile; the eagerness of youth was certainly something.

"Of course Amon, I have instructed the gate sentry to allow you passage." Duncan gestured to his left. "Make haste, if you can. The wilds are a dangerous place to be even without the presence of the darkspawn, more so after the day's end."

Alistair and the two recruits immediately make their way to the gate. Amon, however, remains static with a look of clear disapproval evident despite the sleek black metal obscuring his features. Duncan's impassive smile further agitating him, "Where is the rest of my equipment, old man?"

"I have kept it safe, Amon, with the packs. Here let me fetch them."

While the Nordic warrior remained, the junior Warden and two recruits wait patiently at the gate, Daveth's mirthful voice cutting the silence that surrounded them; "So what do you two think of our newest hire? Quite impressive, no?"

Redcliffe's Knight sighs tiredly, a hand coming to rest upon his forehead, "Daveth, you are becoming worse than a scullery maid. Idle gossip, really?"

Rolling on his heels in boredom and excitement, Daveth's eyes dart between his two companions hoping for the conversation to continue, barely contained mirth shining through. "I've seen him fight, like a beast. With him and our very own Warden guide, we should be able to finish our task toot sweet."

Another sigh escapes the Knight's lips as he looks towards the treetops poking over the fortress walls, "So long as he does his part, I do not care how he fights. I just want to finish this and return to Redcliffe. Helena waits for me."

A frown mars Alistair's normally chipper appearance, watching the two warriors from a distance. "I don't like him, something feels off. Not to mention how rude he is. Duncan saves his life and he talks to him as if Duncan was the dirt beneath his boots."

Jory merely shrugs his shoulders, arms lacing over his armored chest "Mayhap he is just stressed. I know this whole ordeal is wearing my last nerve. We can't all be as optimistic as King Cailan."

Frown still present, Alistair keeps his gaze upon the tall warrior as he approaches, "Maybe…" Suspicion lingering, he leads the group after their late arrival finally joins.

The wilds await, a new adventure unfolds as the High-King of Skyrim and Dragonborn Amon Thorer embroils himself in another conflict that will shape the world. Will he find his way back to Tamriel or will he finally pass to Sovengarde in a foreign land. Only time and fate can tell the tale.

And of course me but I won't mention that in story. In my savefile I had maxed all skills and finished all (Yeah right) quests, however for the sake of, well not being a god character, Amon is a Melee priority character, longsword and shield. He can pick locks, sneak, cast novice level spells, etc but generally, he will leave those tasks those trained to do so. In a pinch, he will but otherwise, why waste his time and effort when he has companions?

Chapter one down, Chapter two next time!

Fus Ro Dah - force balance push – Unrelenting Force, Iconic Dragon shout in the whole game. Anyone who has played should know about it.

Yol Toor Shul – Fire Inferno Sun – Flame Breath, Standard dragon attack, crispy.

Auri-El – Basically the Elven Akatosh, chief deity in most Elven pantheons.

Dov, Dovah, Dovahkiin - Dragon (plural), Dragon (Single) and Dragonborn (protagonist) All standard words in Skyrim.

Ahkrin Dovahkiin - Courage Dragonborn – Why? Cause why not.

Ralfak – Doesn't exist as far as I know, but I didn't want to give him a real town and figured I'd make up one. Let's just say it's a tiny settlement that has no real importance.

Aedan Cousland - The Human Noble was always my choice for Warden, so I figured that's who Duncan would go for, however seeing how this is a crossover. Aedan Cousland perishes with his parents and Duncan finds Amon.

Gud faen – Norwegian for God damnit, the lack of a proper Nordic language in Skyrim I turned to real life Nordic countries; Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway, and Sweden.

Dominion