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]

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?

As it turned out, a whole lot can actually go wrong. Were I a superstitious mer I’d say we were cursed from the start (and no, I do not count Ralof and Hadvar arguing like an elderly married couple who detested each other as a curse…rather a severe annoyance). Not sooner had we started the ascent along a worn path when (to me at least) the mother of all snow storms descended upon us, taking a cruel delight at blowing hither and dither as we clawed our way up the mountain. What should have been a few hours at best along the relatively decent path took us the entirety of the night and the better part of the next day to, and once the blasted storm finally ended we were all cold, shivering and wet.

Have you ever felt what it is like to be clad in leather that has been soaked through almost a day of heavy and fast blowing sleet and water? It gets five times as heavy and even colder as the wet leather clings to you like a second skin. Faendal the poor mer had the worst of it. Not only was he the slightest of us but Ralof and Hadvar both were Nords who had an inborn resistance to cold (to a certain degree at least), and though I may appear at first glance to be a Dunmer, a second look would tell anyone with a slightly above usual intelligence that I was not a ‘purebred’ Dunmer.

My father was half dunmer-half…something else (you know, I never figured out if my grandfather Martin was a pure Imperial or a mix too). My mother however was as pure a nord as you could get. Long flowing golden locks (some of it showing through in my own mostly snow white tresses), sharp blue eyes, and six foot four of muscle that had been hardened through a decade of fighting with the companions (why she ever left to Cyrodiil I’ll never know I suppose). While I’ll never attain my mother’s intimidating bulk, my own height of six foot one and quite decent amount of muscle is nothing to sneer at, and considering that I’m ‘technically’ only a quarter mer, that says something about the strength of Delvanni genes that beside some more human physique I still look for the most part like a Dunmer (all down to my burning eyes and sharp features).

Poor Faendal however was as Bosmer as you could get (and not fond of cold either) and he was shaking so bad that until we could find shelter and warm up he’d be useless in a fight, still we shouldered on Ralof and Hadvar in the lead with their weapons in hand while I walked slightly behind with my bow in hand.

“Bandits ahead”, Hadvar whispered back and I quickly set my gaze upon the ruined tower that he pointed out while Ralof snuck slowly forward.
Making a quick swiping gesture in front of my eyes I spoke an incantation and was rewarded by an immediate brightening of the world around us as the gloom faded before my eyes thanks to the night gaze spell I’d cast. Good for me, and bad for the unsuspecting bandits who were no kahjiits and as such were restricted to normal sight (which at this time of night is not that great). Nocking an arrow I briefly took aim before exhaling and letting the arrow fly...and lodge itself in the space between Ralof’s fingers in the log he was traversing.

Wincing (both at the near miss…or hit, and the future shouting match I would no doubt receive) I quickly nocked another arrow, took aim, and watched fascinated as it flew wide of the tower by perhaps thirty feet and down into the valley below us. When two more attempts gave me similar results I looked over at Faendal who was watching me with disbelief. Shrugging apologetically, I let go of the bow and grabbed my axe before racing full pelt towards the bandits, studiously ignoring Hadvar as he slapped his forehead in resignation, before joining me.

Now normally I’m a cautious person (sometimes…every now and then), but I was cold, hungry and angry at my inefficient skill with the blasted bow so I gave in to my Delvanni and Nord heritage (destroy anything in your path with ruthless fury). The small tower would not only provide us with a place to rest (not to mention roof over our head) but no doubt the bandits would have a small stash of valuables (not to mention their own gear) that would suit itself best as shiny clinky coin in my pocket.

However it was not to be. There is a reason I seldom surrender fully to the fury in my blood and soul (at this point an unknown entity). When I unleash my fury bad things happen (such as learning my first part of a Thu’um, and as it appeared whenever my blood was truly up I had no need for the lengthy experimentation and meditation needed to master it as I shouted ‘FUS-ROH-DAH’, with a voice that clapped like a thunderstorm.

I knew immediately that I had overdone myself again (falling to your knees exhausted while spitting blood tends to do that), as the blastwave of pure force distorted the air in front of me and sent up a mist of loose snow. Curiously enough the screams of panic from the bandits disappeared remarkably swiftly (almost as if they were flying away at great speed), and were accompanied by a curious rumbling as if it was an avalanche or rock slide nearby. Turns out I was right actually, as when the snow had settled the tower and aforementioned bandits were nowhere to be seen, and as we walked over to where it once stood (myself supported by Hadvar) we saw that the tower had not disappeared, only…relocated, as it was strewn across the mountainside and valley floor (along with copious amounts of snow and uprooted trees that had stood in the way of the falling rocks and snow, the bandits themselves were nowhere to be seen).
Seeing the glares of Hadvar, Ralof and Faendal I chuckled nervously while spreading my arms an apologetic fashion…”Umm…oops!”