Metalborn in Skyrim

The pale light of dawn filtered into the small room at the Bannered Mare, accompanied by the distant murmur of Whiterun's waking streets. Dain stirred under the coarse wool blanket, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. For a moment, he stared at the wooden ceiling above him, letting the surrealness of his situation sink in.

A few weeks ago, he had been doing odd jobs—escort missions, protecting caravans, the occasional bit of mercenary work. Nothing too dangerous, nothing too noble. He'd lived day-to-day, taking coin where he could, spending it just as quickly on food, drink, and fleeting company. And now? He was about to deliver a message on behalf of Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. Official business. He snorted at the absurdity of it.

"Government work," he muttered, sitting up and stretching his sore shoulders. "Who'd have thought?"

Kael. That man was the reason Dain was here, embroiled in something far bigger than he'd ever anticipated. Kael was an enigma—calm, calculating, and carrying an air of purpose Dain rarely saw in others. The man could fly, for Oblivion's sake. Dain had seen him soar across the battlefield as if gravity were an afterthought. 

Still, for all his powers, Kael wasn't unapproachable. He had a quiet intensity, yes, but there was something grounded about him too. Dain respected that. It wasn't every day you met someone who could crush steel and still have the patience to listen to a farmer's woes.

Dain shook off his thoughts and stood, adjusting the straps of his armor. Today would be a long day of travel. The letter for Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was tucked securely in his pack, its weight feeling far heavier than the parchment it was written on. This wasn't just a delivery. It was a plea for unity in a fractured Skyrim—a daunting task, given the Stormcloaks' priorities. But orders were orders.

As he stepped outside, Whiterun greeted him with its usual vibrancy. Vendors called out their wares, children played near the Gildergreen, and the blacksmith's forge roared in the distance. It was normal, routine—but for Dain, it felt distant. The tension of Kael's warning about the Forsworn hung over him like a storm cloud.

He saddled his horse at the stables just outside the city gates. The beast, a sturdy mare with a dark coat, snorted as he secured his gear. "All right, girl," he said, patting her neck. "It's you and me. Let's not embarrass ourselves in front of Windhelm's lot."

The road to Windhelm was familiar but fraught with memories. As he rode, Dain's thoughts wandered back to his own past. He hadn't always been a sword-for-hire. Born in a small village near the Pale, he had grown up amidst the hard winters and harder lives of Skyrim's northern reaches. His family was poor but proud, and they had taught him the value of hard work.

But pride and hard work didn't save them when bandits raided the village. Dain had been young, barely able to lift a blade, and he'd hidden while his family fought and fell. That day had shaped him more than he cared to admit. Survival first. Always. He'd learned to fight, to fend for himself, and to take whatever jobs paid enough to keep him moving.

And yet here he was now, riding to deliver a message for a Jarl. He chuckled to himself, the sound bitter. "Guess even a sword-for-hire can end up important every now and then."

The ride was quiet at first, the landscape around Whiterun's plains giving way to snow-capped peaks and dense forests. But as he approached the White River's edge, the wind picked up, and the world seemed to grow colder. The path ahead was steep and winding, and the thought of Windhelm—grim and unwelcoming—didn't make him any warmer.

The ride was quiet at first, the landscape around Whiterun's plains giving way to snow-capped peaks and dense forests. But as he approached the White River's edge, the wind picked up, and the world seemed to grow colder. The path ahead was steep and winding, and the thought of Windhelm—grim and unwelcoming—didn't make him any warmer.

It was as Dain was rounding a bend in the road, the sound of the river rushing nearby, that he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. Instinctively, he slowed his mare, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. The forest on either side of the path grew thicker here, the trees leaning inward as though conspiring to conceal something. He scanned the shadows, his sharp eyes darting to every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig.

The mare's ears flicked forward, and she gave a low, nervous whinny. Dain tightened his grip on the reins. "Easy, girl," he murmured, his voice calm despite the unease creeping up his spine.

Then, it came—a blur of fur and teeth lunging from the underbrush on the left. A wolf, its yellow eyes gleaming with predatory intent, leapt straight for the mare's flank. Dain acted on instinct, drawing his sword in a single fluid motion. The blade gleamed in the pale sunlight as he swung, catching the wolf mid-leap and sending it crashing to the ground with a yelp.

The mare reared, her hooves striking the air as Dain fought to calm her. "Steady!" he barked, pulling her reins to the side. The wolf wasn't alone—two more emerged from the trees, their snarls low and menacing as they circled the horse.

Dain dismounted in one swift motion, his boots hitting the ground with a crunch. He put himself between the wolves and the mare, his sword held in a defensive stance. "All right," he muttered, his voice a low growl to match theirs. "You want a fight? Let's get it over with."

The first wolf lunged, aiming for his leg. Dain sidestepped, his blade flashing downward in a sharp arc that caught the creature across the neck. Blood sprayed onto the snow as the wolf crumpled, but Dain had no time to relish the victory. The second wolf sprang from behind, its claws scraping against his shoulder plate as it tried to drag him down.

Dain gritted his teeth, twisting his body to throw the wolf off balance. He shoved it away with his free hand and turned, driving his blade into its chest before it could recover. The wolf let out a strangled howl, then fell limp at his feet.

The last wolf hesitated, its yellow eyes flicking between Dain and its fallen packmates. For a moment, it seemed to consider retreating, but hunger and desperation won out. It charged, a blur of fur and muscle barreling toward him.

Dain planted his feet firmly, waiting until the last possible moment. Then, with a burst of speed, he stepped to the side and brought his blade down in a powerful arc. The wolf collapsed mid-charge, its body skidding to a stop in the snow.

Breathing heavily, Dain stood over the carnage, his sword dripping red onto the frozen ground. He wiped his blade on the hem of his cloak, his sharp eyes scanning the forest for any more signs of movement. When he was certain the danger had passed, he sheathed his sword and turned to the mare, who was still trembling but unharmed.

"Looks like we're both earning our keep today," Dain said, patting her neck reassuringly. He grabbed her reins and led her back onto the path, his senses still on high alert. "Let's get moving. I don't feel like waiting around to see if anything else is hungry."

As he rode, his mind drifted back to Kael. The man wasn't just powerful—he was relentless. The stories he'd told of the Forsworn's rituals, the pits of bones, the sacrifices—they'd unsettled Dain more than he let on. It wasn't just the horror of the acts themselves. It was the thought that these rituals might actually succeed. A Daedric Prince? That wasn't something a blade or bow could easily solve.

Dain had never been one to worry about the grand scope of things. Politics, gods, Daedric Princes—they'd always seemed distant, irrelevant to his daily struggles. But now, they were close. Too close. And Kael? Kael was walking straight into the fire without hesitation. It was admirable, Dain supposed, but also terrifying.

"What drives a man like that?" he muttered to himself. "Power? Duty? Or is he just crazy?"

The mare whinnied, breaking him from his thoughts. Up ahead, the road forked, one path leading toward a cluster of abandoned watchtowers, the other continuing toward Windhelm. Dain urged the horse forward, taking the latter route. The snow began to fall lightly, dusting the ground and turning the world into a stark, white canvas.

As he neared the bridges leading to Windhelm, he straightened in his saddle. The city loomed in the distance, its dark stone walls rising against the pale sky. The chill in the air seemed sharper here, and the sight of Windhelm's towering gates filled him with a mix of unease and determination.

He nudged the horse forward, crossing the bridge toward the city gates. The guards stationed there eyed him warily, their expressions hard. Dain dismounted and approached, holding the letter aloft.

"I've got a message for Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," he said, his tone firm but respectful. "From Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. Official business."

The guards exchanged glances before nodding. "You'll find the Jarl in the Palace of the Kings," one of them said gruffly, stepping aside to let him pass.

As Dain led his horse through the gates, he couldn't help but feel a pang of doubt. He was a sellsword, a man used to taking orders for coin—not someone who rubbed shoulders with Jarls and dealt with Daedric threats. But Kael trusted him enough to send him on this errand, and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he wanted to prove that trust wasn't misplaced.

With a deep breath, he strode toward the Palace of the Kings.