Introduction.

I crave your attention!

Lords and ladies! Jarls, houscarls, thanes, high kings, low kings, in-between-kings and all, pray attend!

Butchers, bakers, mead-drinkers and mead-makers! Beggars, scholars, soldiers, and fools; Wizards and dancers; Saints, sinners, and necromancers! Hear my song!

Companions and rebels, Thalmor and thieves! Backstabbers, ditch-diggers, clergyfolks, and ship-riggers! Caravaneers from foreign lands, dockworkers, and farming-hands, listen well!

Bards! Guards! Cheaters at cards! Bandits, bounty-hunters, dressmakers and brick-layers! Dark Brothers! Night mothers! Drunks! Beggars! Sailors, goalers and headsmen... wait... did I say beggars already? Shit. Well, Listen up anyway!

You have heard other bards sing tales of the Dovakhiin... the Dragonborn of legend! Saviour of Mundus! Mortal born with the soul of a dragon! Hero with a warrior's heart! But they all sing the same song.

I speak now as one who was there! From the beginning to the end, footstep in footstep, companion and friend to the Dragonborn! For *I* was blessed with the divine duty of recording the legendary exploits of the Dovahkiin. His triumphs, and failures, his victories, and his defeats. If you wish to know the TRUE Dragonborn, you need only SHUT YER YAP and listen!

As I, Astra Verdalea, Bard of Solitude, relate the tale as no other can tell it.

The Beginning, or DAY 1

Down she strode from the city gates, the mighty Nord warrior. Dark hair gleaming in the sun, tan skin glistening in the heat of the day. Her plate armor was unmarred by defeat, and the bard knew her to be the newly appointed Thane of Whiterun by the deadly axe of office she bore on her back, crackling with stormfire barely contained within.

Yet more, so much more was this hero. For not only had the rumor spread like a brushfire from Dragonsreach to the lowest corner of the city, not only had the battle been seen by every eye in the hold, and not only had the ancient mountain-dwelling Greybeards shouted her name from the heavens above the Throat of the World... but the Bard knew that The Hero would be there.

An Aedric Oracle, mysterious and powerful, had warned the bard of a great calamity. The world itself was at stake! And only one could stop it. If the bard waited at the foot of the dragon's perch, in the land far to the north of her home, she would meet that hero. The Bard, trained at the Bard's College in Solitude, knew the lands of Skyrim, and so knew where to wait.

And surely enough, the hero, had arrived. A nord shieldmaiden, clearly a warrior of skill, intelligence, power, and grace; the perfect heir to the bloodline of Tiber Septim himself. She was followed by her bestial underlings, crude and unkempt, likely for little better than carrying her burdens. The bard took little note of them, but I shall relate their manners to you, for the sake of artistic imagery.

One was a khajiit, though one who carried himself with an unseemly pride, and spoke as if he wished he were an Imperial. Some magical experiment had turned his fur into an odd shade of blue, and his face was scarred, as with a house-cat who stays out every night getting into trouble. He was dressed as a common mercenary, with iron armor, though his weapons were of uncommon quality. Clearly a, experienced and remorseless killer.

The other was more unpleasant still. An argonian with scales of an ugly color; reminiscent of the rumination from a long night of drinking. Even less a warrior than the khajiit, this argonian, already short for his kind, walked with a hunch and poor posture. His clothes were little better than rags. His hide armor was bloody and clearly had been ripped from the carcass of some deceased bandit. His armaments, a flimsy shield and rugged war-pick, still stank of blackened gore.

It is no wonder the bard decided to ignore the hero's less-than-pleasant company, and address her directly. Kneeling down, head bowed in reverence, holding up her lute:

"Dragonborn. It is an honor to stand before you. I am Astrailing Verdalea, Bosmer of Nevenwood, Bard of Solitude, Chosen by the Aedra to chronicle your epic. I beg for the honor to serve you as long as I may, until you find your destiny, or my body falls, and feeds the forest from whence it came."

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The Dragonborn stood, silent, stoic, coming to some great and wise determination, even as her henchmen giggled like schoolchildren and made crude jokes at the bard's humble display of reverence.

"Wait..." the argonian said in his guttural voice, "Which forest whence you came?"

"I think she said Nevenwood." The Kahjiit responded.

"Does that mean if you die we have to ship you back there? Or would any forest do?"

"She was pretty specific. I don't know, that sounds like a lot of hassle."

"I admit, I do like the kneeling..." the lizard said, squinting his eyes and stroking his scaly chin, "Do you know any good songs? Ragnar the red? Oooh! Mogo's Beer?"

"It's Mogo's MEAD." the khajiit corrected him. "I bet having a real trained bard along would be a lot of fun! Perhaps she could give me a recommendation at the bard's college!"

"It can't hurt to ask."

Still the Dragonborn said nothing. The bard's dignity was fraying along with her sanity. Why would the heroic warrior force her to endure such humiliation? Why did she allow their petty mockery to continue? Surely, it must be some kind of test. Yes. That was it. The road would be long, filled with trials that demanded patience, wisdom, and the endurance of many tortures. And so the bard stood firm in her vigil.

A few moments of silence passed. The argonian coughed.

"How... do we make her go? She's starting to weird me out."

"You haven't accepted her offer yet. Say something... formal."

"Oh. Right." The lizard cleared his throat and stepped forward. When he spoke, if anything, his voice was even more gravelly than before he cleared it. "Noble bard-lady. You may rise. I accept the position of bard. I mean, of you. As bard. Wait, hold on..." The dumb lizard was clearly very easily confused. Even the Khajiit put an exasperated palm to his forehead. "Okay, hold on. All that stuff you said, recording the dragonthing or whatever. I accept." Another long pause. "She isn't doing anything. Inigo, it didn't work. Am I supposed to take the lute?"

"I don't think so. Try... Oh. I think... Lydia?"

"What? Who's there?" The Dragonborn finally spoke. The blue kahjiit sighed.

"Not this again..." he muttered. "Lydia, look down. No, behind you. No that's still not... Lydia. Look at the horsey!"

"Oooh!"

"Now look straight down."

"Oh! Hello there! It's a pleasure to meet you!" the Dragonborn warmly smiled at the bard and took the lute from her hands. "Thank you. I'll treasure this."

The bard blinked a few times, still not moving. No longer in reverence, now she was frozen in a horrifying realization which had set upon her.

"Do you need help finding your parents?" The dragonborn asked.

Slowly, the bard rose. Unable to bring herself to make eye-contact as her face turned red with shame, and her stomach attempted to escape through her esophagus.

"I think... she figured it out." The cat grinned.

"What? Figured what out?" the argonian said blankly.

"Miss Astraling, my name is Inigo, it is, indeed, a pleasure to meet you. Don't feel bad. We are an unconventional bunch. This is Thane Rach, the Dragonborn. That... is Lydia. His houscarl."

"Yeah, you're way better at this formal stuff than I am." the... dragonborn (the bard shudders even as she writes this word to describe the argonian) said. "But I told you, I don't like the whole 'dragonwhatsit' thing. I'm not a Nord. I'm a Wingcutter."

"A w...wing...cutter?" The bard stammered, still trying to come to terms with this sudden and tragic turn of events.

"I came to Skyrim because the Dragons are back, and ever since before I hatched, my parents would tell me stories of the Wingcutters of old... I guess you might call them Dragonslayers, but it was an ancient Saxhleel order. They're extinct now, and of course there's not been dragons since forever. But when I heard, I gave up my old life and ran to Skyrim!"

"I see." the bard frowned. "And what about you?"

The Khajiit shrugged.

"I'm not sure I'm quite comfortable with the publishing of my life-story by a bard I barely know, but... I can say I have a great sin to atone for. A debt that must be paid."

"To... to him?" The bard almost said 'to That?' but she managed not to.

"No, not to him. No, to another friend whom I was... unworthy of. I hope to find her some day. In truth I've heard rumors, but my new friend here convinced me that it would be better to go out and find her, and get a head start on paying my debt to the world."

"She may be in trouble!" the lizard chimed in with a sharp-toothed grin.

"Indeed." The khajiit gave a heavy sigh. "So now you know something about us, and we know something about you. You are welcome to join us if you still with to record the ballad of the Dragonborn."

"Wingcutter." the lizard corrected him.

The bard gave a deep sigh. This was going to be a greater test than she ever could have imagined. She looked to the hourcarl, Lydia for some sympathy, and the hope of a kindred spirit.

Lydia sidled in close and whispered conspiratorially.

"Here. Take this. It'll keep you safe." She held out a closed fist.

Relieved, the bard held out her hand. The Nord warrior dropped a small object into it.

"What is... is this... one of my tuning keys?!" The bard looked and saw that one.-- no, two of the strings on her lute were now completely slack. The houscarl was already working at unscrewing a third.

Infuriated, the bard snatched her lute back from the Nord.

"Give me... give me the other key!"

"No! It was a gift! From someone special." The bard was speechless, which was not a common experience for her.

Inigo gave the bard an understanding pat on the back.

"Don't worry, you just have to distract her. Lydia? Would you mind holding this for a moment?" The khajiit, this... Inigo, gave her his ebony bow. Then held out his clawed hand, and she gave him the key. "Thank you. Here." He pulled out an apple from his bag, and traded that for his bow back. Finally, he handed the key back to the stunned bosmer.

"This... you're all insane."

"Yes we are!" Rach said with a grin. "Welcome to the club!"