My first story! Will be multiple chapters. Revolves around my Dragonborn OC and someone he stumbles upon in his travels who I won't say much of till next chapter.

Sometime in 4E 202

It was moments like this that Darius, or as nearly the whole of the land knew him as, the Dovahkiin, relished. It was a rare opportunity in his gallivanting across Skyrim on seemingly endless adventures that he could forget his trials and enjoy the simplicity of sitting on a rock by a warm fire and gazing at the heavens. Perhaps the gods were watching him. Surely Talos would closely follow the actions of his successor, whether he would approve or not was a different matter entirely. He set down his helmet in the thin layer of snow at his side as his legs dangled over the edge of the outcropping of rock on the edge of the nameless mountain. As he ran a gauntleted hand through his jet-black hair, he pulled out his Amulet of Talos from the inside of his Dragonscale armor and held it up to the moonlight and crackling fire, tracing its intricate carvings. It was the only thing on him when he woke up in the cart on the path to the doomed town of Helgen. It is also connected to one of his only memories of his past life. It had been given to him when he was a small child by his mother.

Right? Or was it his father? Or…his sister? Did he even have a sister? Just like every other time he tried to remember his past, before waking up on the jerking, thudding cart en route to his presumed death, it would only get foggier and foggier the longer he thought about it. So he tried not to, for fear his few precious snippets of memory would fade completely. He'd thought his memory would improve over time, but, roughly a year after he laid his head on the executioner's block and witnessed the power of the Dov for the first time, he still had to guess his own age. He figured he'd seen about twenty-four winters or so. It just felt right in his head.

Was it the Divines who cursed him so? The Daedra? Had they simply plucked them out of whatever life he'd been living and deposited him in the middle of the Imperial ambush in the Jerall Mountains? Had he really been living with the dragon blood in his veins without ever feeling its influence on his thoughts and actions? He dismissed all of these thoughts. Jumbled thoughts like these just made his head hurt. He was no dumb brute, but no scholarly philosopher either. He was the Dragonborn, and a good one at that. His mother had been a Nord, his father an Imperial, and he had inherited both their features. Fitting that Talos' successor was a blend of both the ascended god's Atmoran heritage and his creation, the Empire. He was the one of legend, tasked with saving this land from the World-Eater and changing the course of history, not just in saving Nirn but making his mark on it. As he settled in to his bedroll, without bothering removing the rest of his armor, a light sleep immediately taking hold, he steadied himself for another day. Another day chasing his destiny. Another day wondering what his fate truly was.

52 hours later

Skyrim in summer, though it was hard to call it that as the temperature was still roughly the same, was genuinely beautiful. The lush green plains dotted with patches of wildflowers, the rolling hills and mountains, the soft blanket of pure white snow that covered northern Skyrim perpetually. Darius loved the northernmost province in all its frigid glory. Many of its inhabitants, however, were a different story. On this road alone he had come across a group of bandits, a pack of wolves, and a dragon. He therefore now had in his possession a fat coin purse, an ice wolf pelt, and a soul, in that order.

He was trudging along a dirt road in a mountain pass. From his tattered, creased map he guessed he was in one of the mountain ranges in the Reach. The map was awfully vague and hardly passed as a "map" at all, but he hadn't thought to buy one of better quality in his last stop in Whiterun. He'd actually done little more than dump the septims, trinkets, and a dragon bone or two in Breezehome. His dragon blood didn't allow him to sit still for long. He curses whatever god is watching and tosses the pathetic paper away. It wasn't any significant help, just some situational comfort. And that's another thing. His blood could also make him rash and arrogant, or in some instances, murderous. Sure, that part was reserved for his enemies or people who pissed him off, like the time he'd punched Nazeem in his stuck-up, condescending face in the middle of the marketplace. He'd only had to declare his Thaneship and status as Dovahkiin to get the guards off his back, but he still tried to avoid doing things like that. It was "bad for his image" in Lydia's words. He regretted having hardly greeted his loyal housecarl in his brief return to the city that had welcomed him with open arms out of the fires of Helgen.

It was nearing midnight. He'd need to find a good place to sleep for the night. He was scanning the cliffside for any nice depressions in the rock that he could climb to and lay his bedroll when he turned a corner in the path and heard voices. He instinctually crouches low and hugs the rock face, peeking around the corner. "…and who cares anyway, Taryna?" Says an elf, clearly male. "This heretic pig will be executed at Northwatch as soon as we get there. If you care so much for her, you drag her pathetic carcass." A reply comes. "Put a plug in it, Varlen. I was merely suggesting that we at least give her an 'honorable' death. I believe these primitive Nords value that above all else. But never mind that. Perhaps her 'god' will save her. Wait! Oh no! Surely he shall smite us! We ought to flee!" A female elf cries mockingly. A certain "heretic pig," in their words was quite compelled to slaughter these elves without a thought. They were in his view now. Thalmor. Three of them, dragging a limp form behind them, presumably the other Talos worshiper. Thalmor. Thalmor. Talos. Talos worship. Thalmor…

Death.

Sorrow.

Helplessness.

The memory hit him like a brick wall, seemingly triggering others. His past flashed before his eyes. Going rabbit hunting with his father, and being taught to wield his father's simple hunting bow. His mother's soft caress on his cheek following a rather bad allergic reaction to a bee sting. Their little farmhouse in the countryside of Skyrim. His mother's garden full of beautiful flowers, the fox he'd saved from a wolf and befriended. It was like a fairytale. So that was his childhood. Or…was it?

Twelve years ago

"Daddy…who's breaking down our door? D-Daddy?"

"Run, son. Run. Do not come back. Never come back."

The boy's father grabs his trusty iron sword off its rack.

It had killed the odd bandit or wolf without fail many times.

These were neither bandits nor wolves.

"Nora. You need to leave, now."

"I won't leave you, Aran. I will die with you if I must."

"You always had that sense of honor, love."

It was then that the people in golden armor crashed into the one-room cottage.

"You have violated the White-Gold Concordat. Come forward and your death shall be quick. Otherwise…"

"Never, you elven bastards. You can't prosecute us for worshipping mighty Talos. You can't force your beliefs on others! Next time, the Empire will be ready. And it will get its revenge."

"Your petty Empire is dead, Nord. And now…so are you."

Two elves attacked. One is cut down. Two more take his place.

His father is run through.

Without any hesitation, they slaughter his mother as well.

The next thing the boy knows his bare feet are upon the snow.

He runs.

And runs.

Till he can run no more.

Then he sits.

And cries.

Till he can cry no more.

He vows to have his revenge.

Someday.

Then he stands.

And begins to wander.

He will wander until he finds purpose.

When he finds purpose he will find destiny.