Hello, and and welcome to the first of many chronicles to come of a character I've been developing for quite some time. I truly feel as if I've been through his pitfalls and victories along side him, and I hope you'll find the story, while being a variant on a common theme, enjoyable. So, without further ado, I give to you the stories of Rykis Fokin, Snow-Child, Dragonborn.
Darkness receded from Rykis' eyes like a tide, and he slowly took in the familiar grey sky of his home, Skyrim. But where was he? For all of its beauty, the Fatherland's forests were ubiquitous and blended together. He flexed his hands, but found them restricted. Tied up... Oh, yes. Darkwater Crossing. Rykis squeezed his eyes shut again, but just as he did, a voice spoke up.
"You're finally awake," the voice said. It was deep and thick and as Nordic as they come. It made Rykis think back to days past when he first took to mead and ale with his brother; the coldness of the dark liquid overcome by the heat of blood.. Rykis looked up to meet the fellow captive. The man spoke, but Rykis didn't hear. He only thought of the last time he saw his brother, bleeding out and blank-eyed in the mud of some gods-forsaken farm. He only saw the sword plunging down into his chest, and the screams.. The voice which once carried mirth and laughter then turned into a failing, desperate cry that still cracked and echoed in Rykis' ears.
"General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting!"
Rykis jerked his head around and saw that they had arrived to the gates of a small village. It was Helgen. It seemed like only yesterday when he and his brother stopped here on the way to Morrowind to hunt. The mead was amazing; the barkeep said it was brewed with Juniper Berries, which the two brothers found to be quite the clever innovation. They remarked that it was an idea to rival Honningbrew itself, which Vilod found appealing and said that he may or may not have a patron in Solitude for the mix (nothing certain though and certainly to be kept secret). Rykis grinned as the carts came to a stop, hardly paying attention to the others around him, and not even taking so much as a glance to his right to see the bound and gagged man in wolf's skin to his right. They stepped off of the cart and names began to be called, evenly, calmly, as if terrible things weren't about to happen.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
Rykis realized for the first time who exactly he was mixed up with, and the fact that there was no escape from this.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
Rykis' breathing began to quicken, his heart was clawing out of his chest. Did Sovngarde await him..?
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
Where all the others walked forward in silence, here Lokir cried out: "No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"
The horse thief Lokir started to run. Coward was the thought in Rykis' mind, but his instincts told him to do the same, but he couldn't run. He must do this with honor and dignity. Everyone watched as the guard shot Lokir down with one arrow and everyone heard the feeble cry as Lokir's life left his lips. Not even a trial, or any reasoning. Just death. So this is how the Empire has become.
"Anyone else feel like running?" said the female captain. She was a real firebrand, that bitch. Rykis only clenched his jaw and looked forward. So be it.
"Wait, you there, you're not on the list. Who are you?" asked the man with the book in his hand.
Rykis gave his information in a low voice, not once faltering or stopping. The captain and the man glanced at each other.
"Follow the captain to the block, prisoner."
Rykis took his spot next to the man called Ralof, and waited. An old man dressed in ornate Imperial armor walked up. He looked tired- no, more than tired- for all of his grandeur. Grey hair wreathed his head, but there was still fire in his eyes.
"General Tullius, the military governor," said Ralof, with only the slightest bit of contempt in his voice.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, you have been charged with..."
The more this man talked, the more Rykis began to despise him. His voice was silken like one who crawls in shadows, and the conceit was almost palpable. This "General's" weakness was more apparent than the mammoths in the plains of Whiterun. Rykis began to choke back urges to run to this man and beat the life out of his body, to wring the spine from his back (if he even had a spine there to wring), to tear out his tongue and gouge his eyes. His hands were bound, but that would not stop him. He would beat this general with his own head, bite and kick and not stop until no light was in his eyes, just like the Legion did to his brother.
One of Ulfric's Stormcloaks spoke up and walked up to the block. He spoke of his ancestors, and his head rolled.
"Next, the Nord in the rags!"
Talos preserve me and give me strength.
Time began to blur.
He walked forward
pushed on his knees
head bent
the executioner, crooked axe man in black
and then..
a roar.
It was unlike anything Rykis had ever seen. What in Oblivion is THAT?! It landed on top the tower battlement and he heard stone and mortar crack. The word dragon was being shouted, and it rung in Rykis' soul. The beast opened its maw and... roared? No.. Dark clouds swirled in the sky and something exploded behind Rykis, The dragon opened its great black mouth once more and again roared(?). This time, Rykis heard words... Foos ro da?
Blood was pumping, and Rykis fell off of the block. A voice yelled to him, get up!
He wasn't going to die. No, not a chance. He wasn't going to be helpless again. For Roljar.
Not this time.
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And I'll keep that in mind. I knew the dialogue was going to have to be different to suit the character's personality, but I figured I... more