The Tale of Aurora Delvanni: Chapter One, Aurora Delvanni is forced to flee to Skyrim and start a new life. Options

[Tellie]

The Tale of Aurora Delvanni.

Foreword:

'So you've come to write down my story have you? I thank you. I was born Aurora Regine Septim. The only daughter of Saryn Constantin Uriel Septim, the only son of Martin Septim and Salina Delvanni. What was that? Oh I can assure you the Septim bloodline is not as dead as people would have you believe and my favily has always been a long lived one.'

'As I was saying I was born Aurora Regine Septim, but like my father I chose not to use the name Septim. The Septim line was almost destroyed completely and that is why my grandmother kept the birth of her and Martin's son a secret, and my father had no desire to lay claim to the throne either, so without further ado let us begin.'

Chapter One. A New Home:

It was a few days after my twelfth birthday that tragedy struck my family. My family had been living in relative peace in Bruma ever since the Oblivion crisis, but peace was not to last. I had grow up with the war against the Aldmeri Dominion and could vividly remember the fires as Cloud Ruler Temple was burnt to the ground with the Blades along with it in the 175th year of the Fourth Era. That was the first day I had seen my father truly angry.

Grandmaster Jokad the great grandson of the legendary Blade Baurus was the only Blade who knew my true identity and had been a lifelong friend of my father so when the attack came my father could not be stopped. Two hundred years old and he grabbed his sword and started running towards Cloud Ruler with more agility then I had seen in much younger men, and naturally I panicked.

With my mother dead the year before I had no one left, so I ran after him. A few hundred yards away he stopped and turned towards me. "Aurora go back, this is not something you should see".

His words hit me like a slap in the face. "Please don't go father, I have no one left but you", I could already feel tears mar my face as I saw the determination in his old eyes.

"AURORA, please don't do this, I have to try and stop this...but I cannot allow you to throw away your life, go back", the steel in his voice brooked no argument so I simply nodded at him, knowing that if I spoke I would break down in pleading sobs.

Once he had passed the burning gates I followed trying to keep myself to the shadows as much as possible. Sneaking closer I heard the sound of steel clashing with steel and my father's mighty shouts rang out across the courtyard.

Climbing up the steps I hid behind a pillar as the last Blades who had not been hunted down, betrayed by their Emperor fought against the much larger force of Thalmor soldiers, With my father joining the small battle it appeared that hope was not yet lost as none could stand before him when he swung his mighty ebony claymore and his spells claimed the life of dozens as he waded through the battlefield.

To my horror though someone slipped past his guard and knocked him to the ground. With his weapon lost and two Thalmorians pinning him down I could only watch with silent horror as a giant of an elf raised his sword for a killing blow, yet before he could strike Jokad threw himself at the elf shouting "RUN MY LORD, WE'LL COVER YOU".

Before my father had a chance to act however a blast of magic disarmed the remaining Blades and then the fight was over, each of them held with a sword to their throats and the big Thalmor soldier removed his helmet.

"My Lord? I was under the impression that you served Titus Meade The Emperor, not some half breed from Bruma".

Jokad bowed his head in shame now that the secret was out, my father was more than he seemed. "You'll get nothing out of me filth", he growled before launching a most impressive clot of spit and mucus into the enemy's face.

The Thalmor leader, his face reddening drew out his blade once more, "Then if you do not tell me I'll just kill him now and be done with it".

This time I was prepared. I already had the words for a fireball spell in my head when I was suddenly clubbed over the back of the head. Seeing stars I crashed into the snow as I tried to clear my vision, and I was vaguely aware of screaming as someone grabbed me by my hair and dragged me over to the others.

"Aurora you silly girl", my father moaned as I was dropped before him. "Please I'll do anything you ask, just don't hurt her", he begged of the Thalmor who laughed cruelly.

"Then tell me what the honourable Blade here was talking about, who are you"?

My father sighed knowing that he was damned either way. "If I tell you will you swear to let her live"?

The Thalmor sighed as if my father had laid on him a heavy burden. "Yes yes I swear I shall not lay a hand upon her".

Apparently satisfied my father took a deep breath. "I am Saryn Constantin Uriel Septim, the son of Martin Septim and true heir to the throne of the Empire".

For a whole minute not a sound was uttered before the Thalmor shrieked a fearsome cry and beheaded my father with a deft stroke of his blade. I screamed in fear and denial as my father's head rolled on the ground and then rage overtook me. Screaming with pain and rage I threw myself at the Thalmor only to be thrown to the ground with mocking laughter ringing in my ears.

"My my you are a feisty one, I believe your death shall be a slow and painful one", he smiled wickedly as he approached me with his blade ready. Panicking I reached out for anything that could help me and from inside me something stirred like a beast of old and with a booming voice like I had never heard my mouth uttered the word [b]'FUS'[/b].

The effect was instant, the Thalmor soldiers were thrown away like ragdolls and the surviving Blades reacted immediately, grabbing discarded weapons they threw themselves at the Thalmor while Jokad grabbed me by my arm and ran,

Once we had reached the Bruma stables he stopped. "Aurora you must leave now".

Shaking my head I tried to speak only to cough up blood, that shout must have done as much if not more harm to me than my enemies.

"Listen the Blades are all but gone and Cyrodiil is no longer safe. Grab a horse and ride. Ride far away where they won’t find you. I rode as hard as I could while the remaining Blades threw themselves at the Thalmor in a futile attempt at delaying them. They bought me time enough at least to stop by the home of myself and my now deceased father where I hurriedly grabbed whatever valuables we had: a good two hundred septims, a trusty steel dagger and a magnificent red jewelled amulet in the shape of a diamond, banded by gold and eight smaller gems that my father had told me I would one day inherit (but must keep hidden at all costs). Pocketing the coins, sheathing the knife in my boot and slipping the amulet over my head I donned a travel worn blue hooded robe and pointed my horse in the general direction of far away.

I lost track of time quickly enough. While heartbroken at the murder of my father and jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs (thank you Thalmor and any agents you may or may not have after me), I was also excited. I was a very precocious and grown up (or so I told myself) twelve-year-old with nothing but the future (and endless muddy roads, curses!) ahead of me and surely this was the start of my very own adventure that would surely rival those of my grandmother or even grand aunt (who was living it up in Morrowind and no doubt amusing herself…and any of her compatriots by blasting Argonians back and forth after their rather…misguided attempts at invading a realm protected by three living gods who had sent Mehrunes Dagon screaming headfirst back to Oblivion).

Of course, a twelve-year-old's imagination is rather different from the harsh realities of the world. It was cold, it was wet, it was damned uncomfortable roughing it in the woods due to no innkeepers willing to either: house a twelve-year-old without parents for free or accepting said twelve-year-old’s coin (when I had them). Oh yes, a good two hundred coins did me well…for about two weeks, then I had to get creative. First and foremost, without coin there wasn’t a single innkeeper (a pox on all of them) who would even entertain the notion of housing me (regardless of my doe eyes and hopeful beaming smile).

Furthermore, without coin I lacked the crucial ingredient for a good life…or even life in general. Food is sadly a necessary ingredient to keep our bodily functions working, and food doesn’t exactly grow on trees…well I suppose some of it grow on trees, but I’ve found out that unannounced (and unpermitted) trips into someone’s fruit garden or vegetable patch is a very good way to give yourself a good bout of personal exercise (to avoid either the cane or the guards…I’m still undecided to which one is worse). Regardless, over the years that I spent wandering Tamriel on foot, (my trusty mount Brunhilde having found her way into my pot that very first year) I discovered that I had a peculiar set of natural talents (from my father’s stories an inherited family trait).

Magic came rather naturally to me, the only problem was finding the proper spellbooks, after all mages and shopkeepers didn’t give them out in charity (a pox on them too). I was also blessed with the ability to not only find myself in constant hot waters with guards, shopkeepers…priests, most of the time due to my rather itchy fingers that took a delight in…borrowing items (food and coin for the most part), items that most of the time I did not technically have permission to ‘borrow’, regardless if it was for a good cause or not (and yes, keeping me alive is a good cause I can assure you). Still, the only thing I did better than getting into tight spots was wriggling my way out of them, being blessed by not only very good genes (apparently scraping and clawing one’s way out of trouble was a time honoured Delvanni family trait stretching back for generations), said genes had gotten a very good workout over the years as most of the time I was on the move (guards, or anyone else I’d robbed and/or insulted not far behind me).

Of course, living in the wilds (I dread the state my hair must have been in those years) I also learnt a lot about survival, like how to handle an axe (nothing wrong about a traveller carrying an axe, besides the fact that the massive dwemer monstrosity was sharp and big enough to bisect a troll), I also discovered that whenever you get stuck in situations like: guards who refuse to listen to reason (excuses or outright lies really) or stubborn wildlife (that most of the time want to add you to their palate) a good fireball is always the best answer (and in some cases also gets you free dinner).

Still, as I was saying I travelled Tamriel back and forth never staying more than a day or two at the most in any given city, as such I was…rather out of touch with local news (or even what year it was). I knew of course that the Great War had ended (a few months after I left as a matter of fact) with the signing of the White Gold Concordat. The Argonians had not only been beaten soundly by my quite frankly terrifying great aunt (at least that’s how father described her) but evolved into a state of perpetual war as the Dunmer of Morrowind took a trip down every once in a while to pick up new helpers (slaves) and the Argonians sent another wave back into Morrowind (aided by whatever mercenary or sellsword stupid enough to join every few years only to be beaten back soundly). And unrest was stirring in Skyrim.

Normally such news would have me steer clear of the land with a wide margin (the state of war being the biggest reason I did not seek out my great aunt after all). But unfortunately in the nearly two decades I’d roamed Tamriel I’d managed to infuriate quite a few local magistrates (and other persons of less repute), almost to the fact that if someone caught me and managed to provide proof that I was the one behind the numerous crimes and insults paid (isn’t it wonderful to never stay long enough for someone to learn your name?) He/She would earn enough money from the unclaimed bounties to probably buy themselves a minor Duchy somewhere.

So unless I was willing to enter the warzone that was the Morrowind/Black Marsh border, then Skyrim was the only option left, so it was with a heavy heart that I stole a horse from the Duke of Chorrol’s personal stable (glee actually, the poor beast was no doubt better off with someone who was not the size of a small troll like the aforementioned duke). Slipping out of Chorrol with my new (and quite thankful) steed and a suspiciously heavier pack (the local backer should learn to use locks better than what a blind beggar could pick) was simplicity itself…that of course should be clue enough that my bi-polar family luck would kick in.
No sooner had I crossed into Skyrim that a blizzard so strong I couldn’t even see my poor shaking fingers struck. I was forced to make a quick makeshift shelter compiled of sticks and some rolls of cloth, the only source of warmth I had was this delightful fur coat that I’d spotted hanging innocently by itself in the entrance hall of the Cheydinhal Chapel. My poor horse was forced to stand out in the cold and freeze even more than I, (un)fortunately Dinner (three guesses what I intended to do with the horse when I named her) would be free of the blasted weather soon enough.

The godsforsaken blizzard (a pox on Kynareth for exposing me to it) lasted for three days. What’s worse, Dinner managed to escape (from the weather or discovering my plots for her I’ll never know), so there I was. Cold, hungry and bereaved of most of my worldly possessions (most of them still latched on to Dinner's saddle), the only things I had left were the clothes on my back, the now sodden cloak I’d used as a ‘roof’, my amulet and of course my trusty axe (and hidden knife).

I wandered through waist high snowdrifts for perhaps a day, continuously swearing to myself that as soon as I found a town I’d settle down for good and turn over a new leaf in life. Start fresh as a lawful citizen (I was after all, a decent healer, a good forester and hunter, and had some skill in a smithy, blacksmiths often accepted help in return for a measly coin or three and you quickly pick up things when you do them for a good decade or two). Of course, my relapse into crime came perhaps the very next day or so when I spotted a man dressed in leather armor walking by his lonesome with nothing but a woodcutter’s axe in his hands and a short sword at his waist.

I know I said that I would start fresh, but I was hungry, and the man obviously had coin, and in the grand scale of things what was one last robbery? Not receiving an answer, I unsheathed my axe from its place on my back and stepped towards him. “Hello there, give us your coins and nothing bad will happen to ya”, I said with my best smile as I hefted the big axe in my hands.

The man breaking out into a laughing fit wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d planned for, the pointed cough from behind me provided me with ample explanation for why the man was laughing. Standing perhaps a few feet away (certainly within arms reach) was no less than a whole company of Imperial Legionnaires in full armour and a pair of carts laden with prisoners (dressed in light scale, mail and leather armour with blue cloth and furs). “Oh Bugger!” were my last words before a mailed fist sent me happily into the land of dreams.


So I decided to rewrite large parts of the intro (and add more parts) to make it more 'correct' in terms of time. Such as the end of the Great War (and beginning of the sotry) does not lead to Aurora going straight to Skyrim. Instead it leads to Aurora developing into a (somewhat) competent their and warrior/mage with literally nothing to her name (except a very long list of bounties matching her description). SO at the start of 'Skyrim' (main part of this story) she is thirty seven years old (rather young still as she is 'technically' a dark elf).
Also I will be trying to focus on this story mostly for now while my muse is with it, but I haven't forgotten (or stopped working on) my other stories. So please leave a review and enjoy.

This post has been edited by Tellie: Mar 16 2016, 08:26 AM

[Tellie]

Apparently I must have passed out after the revelation of exactly ‘which’ amulet I had inherited from my father, since I woke up underneath a heavy fur cloak with Ralof, Ulfric and Hadvar all arguing back and forth underneath a shabby bivouac as rain poured down all around us.

Ulfric was all for using me to boost the morale of his men (me being of Septim blood tended to rather severely invalidate Titus Mede’s own claim to the Ruby Throne). Hadvar was the opposite of course. Having someone of Septim blood endorse General TUllius would surely inspire the rest of Skyrim to denounce the rebellion and the Stormcloaks. Ralof was the only one who had a halfway decent plan. Due to what had happened at Helgen these hills would sooner rather than later be swarming with soldiers. Unfortunately for the Stormcloaks my rather direct (and near fatal) assault upon the Thalmor Emissary Elenwen would worsen the situation, and most likely would force Mede to send Tullies reinforcements…not to mention the increase of Justicars that would be dispatched from the Dominion. So Ralof’s rather sage advice was to split up and leg it as best one could, a plan I heartily agreed with.

“Someone will have to go to Riverwood and Whiterun to inform them of what has happened”, Hadvar said for what had to be the umpteenth time since I woke up, sparking yet another argument.

“LISTEN!” I yelled, causing the three Nords to pause. “Ralof can go to Riverwood, lay low for a little time”, I held up my hand to silence Hadvar who looked about to be protesting. “Ulfric, will have to manage to sneak all the way back to Windhelm…good luck by the way”, I said as I pointed to Ulfric who smirked slightly. “Hadvar and I will go to Whiterun…provided he agrees to…omit certain details”.

Hadvar’s brow furrowed, “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Umm…if anyone finds out just what I’m wearing around my neck I can guarantee that BOTH the Empire and the Dominion will pour into Skyrim with their armies, I rather keep my head”.

Hadvar just blinked as confusion was spread across his face (bless them if Nords aren’t simple minded beings for the most part. Great drinking partners…terrible card players). I sighed, ‘how best to explain this’, I thought. “This bloody amulet belonged to my grandfather…you know, Martin Septim! I represent the biggest threat to the continued rule of the Mede Dynasty this side of the Aldmeri Dominion…and to the blasted Thalmor I’m the last living descendant of Ysmir, the man who humbled the Dominion like it had never been humbled before…understand”?

The sudden widening of his eyes and gaping mouth told me that the situation had finally dawned upon Hadvar, who suddenly got very serious. “You are a former inhabitant of Helgen, forced to flee as the dragon burnt it, that’s all anyone will hear from me”.

I smiled, even Ralof and Ulfric smiled. “What will you do?” Ulfric asked.

I raked my hands through my hair as I forced my mind to work. “I’ll spend some time in Whiterun trying to find some work that’ll give me coin enough to get up to Winterhold”.

“Winterhold”, Ralof burst out, “What could you possibly want with…Oh!”.

Due to the constant state of war between Morrowind and Black Marsh, more and more refugees from the southern parts of Morrowind were vacating it, not to mention that for centuries it had been almost a rite of passage for young Dunmer mages to spend a few decades at the College of Winterhold. The end result was that WInterhold was probably one of the largest and most populated cities in Skyrim, the great College attracting people from all across Tamriel, but especially Dunmer.

Compared to the neighbouring Windhelm where most Dunmer stopped at (and left quickly after due to the opinions of the local Nords there), Winterhold was a small piece of Dunmer/Nord paradise. The large amounts of Dunmer (and other visitors for that matter) ensured a thriving economy. The normally magic superstitious Nords had over the last centuries become far more acceptable of magic after the College decided to start offering free healing and generally cheap potions. All in all, I should be more than able to acquire sanctuary there for some time without anyone being any the wiser…of course, when does things ever go to plan.

Ralof followed Hadvar and I to Riverwood where Hadvar and I made a quick stop to inform his uncle Alvor (the local blacksmith) about what had happened at Helgen, the offer of food, and a cot to sleep on was most welcome. While I had followed Hadvar into the tavern at first, I left rather quickly as he and Ralof both decided to enter into what they called a ‘discussion’, how those two had managed to be best friends all their lives until now and not kill one another years ago is one of those mysteries that will never be solved I fear, so I instead decided to get started with making myself some coin by poking my nose about to sniff out any secrets or things that needed doing.

I found several things actually. First of all this rather sleazy bard attempted to have me deliver a letter penned in the hand of a Bosmer who appeared to be said bards rival for the affections of the local pawnbroker wench. Now I normally don’t try to involve myself in matters of the heart, but this Bard (with his ludicrous wavy blonde hair) just rubbed me the wrong way, and upon finding out that the Bosmer in question was a very talented hunter and archer it was a rather easy decision to turn the tables on the bard and present a new letter, this time in the hand of this ‘Sven’…Camilla Valerius’s features were rather lovely actually as they twisted and burnt red and she stormed out of small shop she ran with her brother to…accost Sven in the street.

While I never did check up on him, I’m sure he regained the use of his legs…eventually…probably…I think…

Of course, things didn’t end there. I learnt from Lucan /Camilla’s brother) that someone had stolen a golden claw from his store and disappeared into Bleack Falls Barrow (a MASSIVE ruin overlooking the local valley from its lofty perch amongst the snow-capped mountains) and he was offering a rich reward for its return. We haggled a bit back and forth, eventually we agreed on only a hundred septims for the return of the claw, instead of demanding more I had negotiated a deal that Lucan would accompany me to Alvor where he would pay for a good weapon and perhaps some armor for me.

Alvor’s supply was rather…disappointing. I got a perfectly fine longbow, perhaps some thirty arrows all in all (a rather strange combination of iron, steel and even some dodgy looking forsworn arrows). The only armour he had in my size was a set of dark leather/ringmail that at first looked to be rather well worn, but as soon as I got fitted into it I almost sighed. It was perfect, worn enough that the leather had stopped protesting any movement, but still providing protection. The most vital organs were protected by steel rings sown into the leather, while also staying silent as I wouldn’t have to worry about steel rings clanging about. Lastly I was forced to make do with a simple (but big) iron battleaxe.

Faendal (still over the moons at Sven’s punishment) was more than eager to lend his bow to my service, as was both Ralof and Hadvar actually. Hadvar was at first adamant about going to Whiterun, that is until I pointed out that as an officer of the Imperial Legions he had a responsibility to protect the citizens of the Empire, and a small group of bandits hiding out in a fortified position overlooking a town without guards, as well as two well used trade routes…Hadvar changed his tone rather quickly once those points had been raised. Ralof needed nothing else but a raised eyebrow, a Stormcloak couldn’t chicken out where a Legionnaire went boldly forward after all, especially when said Legionnaire was his former best friend.

So it was nearing nightfall as I, Faendal, Hadvar and Ralof started the walk up to Bleak Falls Barrow with the simplest of plans (I am well known for making them). Go up there, kill anyone who resists, take back the claw, simple, easy to remember and after all, it was just a slightly intimidating mountain ruin that held perhaps ten outlaws at the most…what could possibly go wrong?



Now, due to the Red Year never happening, the shockwave of Red Mountain exploding and causing the eventual Great Collapse never happened either. This of course would make Winterhold a much larger city rather than the pale shadow of what it once was, and the College itself is widely reckognised as the most prestigious magical 'Guild' of its kind in the Empire (and other Places) Morrowind included, as the Telvanni don't really share their knowledge easily, so most Dunmer mages spend anywhere between five years to a couple of decades to hone their Craft in Winterhold.

So keep Your eyes open for more changes as they'll show up one after the other eventually.

This post has been edited by Tellie: Mar 20 2016, 08:43 AM