moonysketches:

EPIC HEROICS

Pyrua sneaked into Grelod’s room all sneaky-like, crept up to her bedside, drank a potion of True Shot and dipped an arrow in poison to ensure a one-hit kill … AND THEN BOW-PUNCHED HER RIGHT IN THE GODDAMN FACE.

And then Pyrua reloaded her game and did things right.

LOLOL I pulled LT first instead of RT … hur hur.

I listened to the Skyrim main theme the entire time I was working on the last panel. It just seemed right.

AWESOME SKYRIM DOVAHKIIN COMIC!

Don’t forget you can submit you’re own TALES OF THE DRAGONBORN!!!

Vyneras Saren is a Dunmer refugee from Morrowind, he was among the very last to leave his desolate homeland after the destruction of Red Mountain and the subsequent invasion by Black Marsh.  In the time between the fall of The Ministry and his capture by the Imperial Legion, “Vyn” lived as a hermit in an abandoned library, and devoted much of his time to studying the Daedric Lords, and their planes…since escaping the Legion, he has discovered that his destiny is far more complicated than he ever would have guessed.

Vyn had never taken much stock in rumors.  Especially those he heard from innkeeps.  This one, though, had been true.  The Jarl’s youngest son had become withdrawn, and brooding.  Balgruuf was desperate, so he came to his new Thane for help.  What could he say?

The boy had spoken of a voice behind a door.  Of secrets and whispers.  There was nothing wrong him as far as Vyn could see.  But this door business was interesting.  He followed the lead.  And it had led him to the door.  She spoke to him.  She had chosen him.

Him.

All his pathetic, miserable life he had waited for that moment.  Her voice, a whisper from the void, ran through him like electricity.  He heard it with his ears as much as in his very mind.  A piece of her power was locked behind the door.  He only need unlock it.  And that was so easy.  He waited until nightfall, and picked it from that insipid court wizard.

It was beautiful.  The intricate scroll work shifted from the dark ebony of the blade to gold, then bronze to silver.  His hand reached for, but stopped over the small book.  It was hastily written, hand bound quickly.  The script was hand inked.  Whoever had written this, had done so in fear.  The blade was dangerous it said.  Should never be removed.  Vyn only smiled and tossed the book aside.  

The sword was nearly weightless to him.  And as he touched it, she spoke to him again.  It was her gift to him, if he would wield it in her name.  It had lingered too long here under Whiterun.  It would need to be bathed in the blood of treachery.  Those that trusted him most must be slain with it until it was returned to its former power.

And now.  As he stared down at the blood slipping between the cracks in Breezehome’s worn wood floor, he smiled.  She was nothing to him, but had sworn her life to his.  And now he had taken Lydia’s life for himself, and for Mephala.  

His hands clenched around the hilt of the sword as his eye caught on the moonlight glinting off of the Blade of Whiterun that hung unceremoniously in his hallway.  He wondered how to best go about becoming Thane of Windhelm and Solitude, and smiled…

Vyneras Saren.  Dunmer mage assassin extraordinaire!

Occupation: Listener for The Dark Brotherhood, thieve’s guild member, Dovahkiin.

Hobbies include, hunting dragons, kleptomania and worshiping Daedra.

Submit a story about your own Dovahkiin!  Submit a picture of your own Dovahkiin!  Anything at all!

Also, whomever submitted the last tale, could you drop a line in my Ask box telling me who you were?  I’m totally new to submit blogs, and accidently formated your story so that it looks like I wrote it!  Its a great look at your character and I don’t want to steal your credit.  Cool, let me know.

Rhaegar Ironbjorn crouched beneath the huge rock, his muscles tense and his breathing rough. The Imperial’s cold fingers closed around the Alik’r scimitar on his hip. Lydia crouched beside him, her bow notched and at the ready. The Nord woman was almost as good with a bow as he was with a sword. Almost.

Rhaegar chanced a look at the objective. A Fort. High walls. Four, he counted. Four bandits. He ducked down again and held up four fingers. Lydia nodded. They looked at each other one last time, each knowing death might be on the other side of the rocks.

Quick as lightning, Lydia shot out of her hiding place, sending an arrow through an archer’s throat. He fell without a sound, choking on his own blood.  Rhaegar crept towards the gate, his scimitar and hide shield equipped, charged straight through.

The first man barely had time to yell before Rhaegar opened his throat. But yell he did and the camp burst into life. Another man, an Orc, ran at him, bellowing like a giant, a huge battleaxe raised above his head. He brought it down hard,but clumsily and Rhaegar easily dodged the blow.

Rhaegar heard the twang of a bow and 3 arrows whizzed past his head, lodging themselves in the Orc’schest. He fell.

The last bandit advanced slowly, a Nord, clad in steel armor and armed with a mighty greatsword. Then the Nord charged.

The Nord brought the greatsword down, fast and hard. Rhaegar reacted quickly, his shield catching the blow in mid swing. But the Nord would not let up. He slashed again, harder this time, and cut straight through the hide shield, splitting it in half.

Suddenly Rhaegar was afraid for his life. He threw off the ruins of the shield and charged at the Nord. Steel rang on steel as the two swords clashed again and again and again. But the Nord was winning and he knew it. He pressed his attack, pushing Rhaegar into a corner.

Suddenly Rhaegar was possessed  by rage. A rage so fierce that it consumed his mind. He felt a rumble in throat as the rage fought its way to his mouth. Then it burst out.

“FUS…ROH…DAH!!!” Waves of raw power slammed into the Orc, throwing him clear across the fort. He struggled to his feet dazed. Rhaegar ran at him, gripping his scimitar with both hands. He brought the curved blade down on the Nord’s shoulder, biting through armor and flesh and bone. Blood spurted from the huge gash and the Nord fell to the ground, dying.

He looked up at Rhaegar and before death snatched the life from his eyes, he whispered.”The Dovakhiin has returned”

The mountains shall echo with the songs of Dovahkiin for all eternity!

How did your Dragonborn save the world today?

Welcome to Tales of The Dragonborn, a repository for the many stories of the Dovahkiin of Skyrim.  For the first tale, learn what brought Qhorin No-Clan back to his ancestral homeland.  This is a tale of revenge and redemption.  Of reclaiming a birthright.  Of fathers and sons.  It is a tale of war.

The snow crunched beneath is feet.  He paused as the road came around a bend and he caught sight of the walls of Windhelm.  The sounds of the city passed across the river and up the rise towards him to echo off the mountains at his back.  He could hear the many voices of it, the sound of a child laughing, a dog barking, the clang of metal as a blacksmith worked a forge.  It sounded the same as any other city.  The same as Whiterun.  Bruma.  Cheydinhal.  Except here in Windhelm, he knew it was the sound of revolution.  The sound of war.  The sound would have been music to his father’s ears.

His hand moved to the hilt of the sword at his belt as he tried to remember his father’s face.  That wide smile.  His easy laugh.  He tried to remember the warmth of his father’s fire, and the smell of his mother’s baking bread.  But all that he could see was the anger of his father’s eyes, and he heard his voice echoing with the sounds of Windhelm, “I have no son!”  And instead of the sweet smell of baking bread, he instead could still smell the reek of old wood and burnt flesh.  

War.  It seems that his life had somehow revolved around war.  In the years before his birth, war is what brought his parents south to Bruma.  His father fought with his fellow Nords to protect the Empire from the Aldmeri.  It was the war that kept coin in his pocket for a time, and what allowed him to see Tamriel, from one end to the other.  It was war that finally pushed him to settle in Cheydinhal.  The war brought many to the inn, where he poured drinks.  Now it was a new war that brought him north.  To Skyrim.  The same war that drove a wedge between a man and his father.

When Ulfric Stormcloak murdered the High King, his father had called him back to Bruma.  ”We Nords were the first men of Tamriel…Skyrim is the home of all men…the Empire is nothing but a puppet to the elves now…all Nords should fight to keep Skyrim from their hands…”  Qhorin Northson, the Elder had all the fury of his people, and the zeal to keep fighting at an age when most men are putting down their shovels.  Qhorin Northson, the Younger did not share his father’s love of a home he had never known.  

He returned to Cheydinhal, no longer a son in his father’s eyes, only to be called back mere weeks later.  Not by disappointed or forgiving parents, but by the cold city guard.  The fire had spread so quickly there was no chance for either of them to escape the flames.  Arson was not being ruled out, but an accident seemed far more likely.  The Thalmor ambassador could not spare the extra manpower to look into the matter further.  Especially not for some Stormcloak sympathizer, but that went unsaid.  So, he searched alone.  And found the men responsible.  Not Imperial soldiers, but loyalists all the same.  Qhorin, the Elder had been sheltering refugees and helping to traffic contraband across the border.  

The deaths of the arsonists had not brought him peace.  The flight to Skyrim had ended quickly, as he was captured by Imperial soldiers at the border.  What followed he still has trouble believing was real.  But this was real.  The war.  The Stormcloaks.  Windhelm below him.

Hefting his pack on his shoulder and straightening his sword belt he started down the hill to the bridge…