Skyrim: A Craftman's Journey

4E 201, Northwatch Keep

Endur

And that's another shift finished.

Endur released a breath, rolling his shoulders as he ascended the stone steps, his boots echoing faintly against the cold, cracked walls of Northwatch Keep.

The fortress loomed on the jagged cliffs of Haafingar's northern coast—a frigid, wind-battered ruin clinging to the mountainous regions of Haafingar, west of Solitude. Hardly a glamorous post, but Endur had been proud when his name was called to serve here. To be among the Thalmor's chosen sent to Skyrim? It was supposed to be an honor.

An honor, he reminded himself grimly, that came with long, bitter nights guarding half-frozen stone halls, watching over prisoners, and enduring the endless howling of the Sea of Ghosts.

When they first arrived, his chest had swelled with pride. They were the spear of the Dominion, here to educate the Nord savages—to remind them their worship of a mortal 'god' was not only heresy but foolishness. But now?

Now he was a glorified bodyguard defending what was a windswept crypt disguised as a fortress. Upon arrival in Skyrim, the Justiciars and Lady Elenwen divided their thousand strong force into two. A majority would be kept in the Thalmor Embassy as their main power base, while another two hundred sent to garrison the Northwatch Keep.

Publicly, the Thalmor was given the keep as part of a deal with the Empire, where the Thalmor would defend Haafingar's northern shores from pirates. 

But everyone stationed here knew better. Northwatch wasn't for defense—it was for secrets. For doing the Dominion's less… public work away from the prying eyes of Skyrim's populace.

Just a few months ago, the Thalmor managed to capture a few Stormcloaks in a skirmish. Among them was a rather high value prisoner named Thorald Gray-Mane. According to Thalmor intelligence, the Gray-Manes were one of the most influential families in Whiterun, having connections to the Stormcloaks, the Companions, and even the Jarl's court. His capture had been a masterstroke.

A family such as that would have secrets, secrets that the Thalmor will know of.

The Gray-Mane whelp's screams had echoed through these halls for weeks. Endur wasn't part of the interrogation process, no that required more deft hands. However, he was among the ones present when young Thorald was questioned by the master torturer.

Credit where it was due, the Gray-Mane boy lasted longer than they initially thought. There was even a small attempt to rescue him by Thorald's brother, Avulstein. The attempt ended in his death.

Endur smiled to himself as he reached the upper corridor, the faintest sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below filling his ears. The boy had been defiant at first, but no man held strong forever.

The news of his brother's demise brought whatever stubborn defense Thorald possessed to crumble, as he finally answered whatever questions they asked him.

Yet now, as he strode down the hallway, something felt… off. A tingle crept up his spine, and the hairs on his neck stood on end.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Frowning, Endur stepped onto the courtyard. The two moons hung overhead, casting Northwatch's ancient walls in ghostly light.

The courtyard was empty. Completely empty.

No sentries. No patrols. No torches flickering along the battlements. Only the wind, curling like icy fingers around the ramparts.

His eyes darted upward. A lone torch lay abandoned on the wall walk, its flame guttering weakly. Above, bats spiraled through the air, their wings cutting black shapes across the moonlit sky.

Even the forge—who had angered many with the constant clanging noises day in and out—stood cold and dark.

A pit coiled in Endur's gut. He reached for the hilt of his elven sword instinctively, scanning the shadows.

Seeing movement at the corner of his eye, he approached the person. A figure, shrouded in the gloom, loitered near the far wall. Relief flooded Endur's chest—probably just one of the others, maybe swapping shifts. 

"Hey! Is it your shift? Where is everyone?" His voice carried across the courtyard, thin and uneasy. "If the Justiciar finds out we're slacking off—"

The figure turned.

Endur froze mid-step.

The man wasn't Thalmor. He wasn't anything Endur recognized. Tall and pale as snowdrift. He had the regal bearing of nobility, with raven black hair flowing past his shoulders like liquid shadow, framing sharp, angular features untouched by age. But it was the eyes—blood-red, so piercing and heavy that it rooted Endur in place.

Two weapons hung at his sides.

In his right hand, a curved blade with a guard resembling leathery bats—strange, foreign steel that pulsed with dark enchantments. In his left?

An abomination of a mace, jagged, cruel, and radiating sickly green energy that curled like wisps of smoke from its surface. 

Endur's mouth went dry. His fingers clenched tightly on his sword, but the creature moved, impossibly fast.

Before the blade cleared its sheath, the vampire stood inches from him, eyes blazing, a wicked smile curling his lips.

"Wha—"

Twin fangs plunged into Endur's throat, icy pain lancing through his body as his vision swam. His limbs locked, his mind flooded with terror—CRACK.

The mace slammed into his skull, obliterating bone, thought, and fear in one shattering blow.

Endur's world went dark before his body crumpled to the frostbitten ground.

The last thing he heard was the soft flap of wings—and laughter, deep and cold as the void.

…

4E 201, Throat of the World

Kiera Fendalyn

Her legs ached, lungs burned, and every breath left a trail of mist curling into the thin mountain air—yet Kiera had never felt stronger.

The Throat of the World loomed behind her, stretching endlessly into the sky like the spine of Nirn itself, and yet she had sprinted its height twice today. It was grueling, exhausting… and exhilarating.

Weeks. She had spent weeks here under the watchful eyes of Paarthurnax and Vermithor.

Paarthurnax served as her mentor, drilling discipline, philosophy, and the mastery of the Thu'um into her with relentless patience. It was even his idea to train her body by having run up and down the whole mountain every morning.

Vermithor was instead like an older brother with wings the size of buildings, a sparring partner who relished knocking her flat with Shouts powerful enough to shake the heavens. Their duels had been… humbling at first. Her Thu'um cracked like twigs against Vermithor's might. But the gap closed with each sunrise.

She could feel it. The way her body strengthened. The pulse of the Thu'um flowing freely through her veins. She was becoming more than mortal.

Today, Paarthurnax's words made that terrifyingly clear.

"Your soul becomes more and more dovah with each Shout, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax rumbled, perched upon his mountain peak, "Soon enough, your body shall catch up."

Kiera paused, wiping the sweat from her brow, chest heaving. "What exactly… does that mean?"

"It means," Vermithor interjected, landing beside her with a grin in his deep, booming voice, shaking the ground beneath him "that you'll be as stubborn and fire-blooded as the rest of us soon enough."

Kiera groaned. "Lovely."

"But more importantly," Paarthurnax continued, his breath misting the air with frost, "we shall teach you how to wield that power. The Thu'um shall flow through you as the mountain breathes the wind."

She expected another round of sparring, another brutal trek down the slopes. What she didn't expect… was Paarthurnax's next words.

"The last lesson we can offer, Kiera… is to teach you how to Dragon Ride."

Kiera blinked. "What?"

Vermithor chuckled, stepping forward, "Becoming a Dragonrider is the greatest bond between dovah and joor. And I, little mortal, have decided you're worthy."

Kiera's mouth opened and closed uselessly. "I thought Dragon riding was just a myth." 

"It is. Partially," Paarthurnax confirmed, his golden eyes glinting with age-old memories. "Only a handful of people in existence have ever successfully done so. But the legacy was lost when a Dragon Priest tainted the ancient ritual. Miraak was his name. Instead of creating a proper bond with his fellow dovah, he instead enslaved the dragons using a horrid Shout that could bend dragons to his will." He shook his head.

"After Miraak," Paarthurnax continued, voice somber, "no dovah trusted mortals enough to share that bond again… until now." His great head lowered, eyes steady upon her. "Vermithor has chosen you."

Kiera turned to the bronze dragon, wide-eyed. Vermithor winked, massive teeth gleaming.

"Call upon his name, Dovahkiin." Paarthurnax said. "Only when the Thu'um connects you both, shall the bond be forged." 

Nerves battled excitement in her chest. But she took a steadying breath, drew her shoulders back, and roared his name with every ounce of her soul:

"VER MI THOR!" 

The Thu'um echoed across the jagged cliffs, shaking the mountain peak of the Throat of the World. 

A spark ignited within her—a thread, thin but unbreakable, stretching from her chest to Vermithor's. She felt him now, his heartbeat, his pride, his immense power. It was intoxicating.

Vermithor lowered himself, spines flattening. "Climb on, Dovahkiin."

She obeyed, scrambling onto his back, gripping the ridged plates along his neck. The connection hummed, alive with shared understanding.

"Are you prepared, Kiera?" the Bronze Dragon asked.

She nodded. "Yes."

"You might want to put on your helmet, and lower the faceguard." Vermithor said with amusement. "Trust me." She did so.

And so they soared.

Whatever she expected flying to be like, it wasn't this. The first moment, sheer terror gripped her. The winds howled like banshees, her body jerked with every wingbeat, and the endless sky stretched in all directions. She clung tight, barely keeping her balance.

But the terror gave way to wonder.

Mountains fell away beneath them like pebbles, rivers glistened like silver threads, forests sprawled like carpets of green. The world was breathtaking from above.

Vermithor laughed, diving low along the cliffside. Kiera shouted in exhilaration, heart pounding. They twisted, turned, skimmed the clouds, her hair whipping behind her like a banner.

'This… this was freedom.'

She couldn't wait to see Gerron and Serana's reactions when they saw this.

The flight lasted minutes, maybe hours—it was impossible to tell. But when they landed atop the Throat once more, Kiera slid off, breathless, legs shaking but filled with a wild, untamed joy.

"The first flight is always the most… exhilarating." Paarthurnax chuckled, "Congratulations, Kiera. You are the first Dragonrider of the Fourth Era."

Once she regained her composure, the old dragon grew serious, his great head lowering. "Now… It is time you know the truth."

Kiera's brow furrowed.

"Alduin's strength grows," Paarthurnax explained gravely. "His power feeds upon dinok. Death. The chaos wrought by dovah and Dragon Priests alike fuels him." His voice was heavy with regret. "The Priests have not yet mobilized… but they will. And when they do, it shall be upon us to stop them."

"The Dragonstone not only marks the burial sites of my fallen kin… but those of every Dragon Priest entombed in death." Vermithor chimed in, "If we strike before they awaken, we may deny Alduin his greatest servants."

Kiera absorbed that, her brow furrowing. "But how was Alduin defeated the first time?"

Paarthurnax's gaze turned distant, ancient memories flickering in his eyes. "With Dragonrend—a Thu'um forged not by dovah, but mortals."

Kiera frowned. "If it was so powerful, why not use it again?"

"No dovah can wield it," Paarthurnax replied. "We cannot comprehend mortality as mortals do. Dragonrend embodies the inevitability of death. A concept foreign to my kind."

"Arngeir preaches that Dragonrend is born of hatred for dragons. He claims that learning it means taking part in it." Vermithor said. "While there's truth in his caution… the Thu'um—despite its power—is no different than a sword in the end. It serves the wielder's will. If you so choose to learn it, Kiera, neither I nor Paarthurnax will fault you for it."

"How do I even learn it if you couldn't teach me?" Kiera asked.

Paarthurnax's gaze sharpened. "An Elder Scroll," he said solemnly. "When Alduin was struck down, the Scroll was used to cast him beyond time's flow. It fractured time itself—here, on this peak, I have waited thousands of years within that scar."

He then met Kiera's stare. "Seeking an Elder Scroll might be the way to learn the shout directly from the ancient heroes. Though Elder Scrolls are objects of great rarity, even I wouldn't know where to start in search of one."

"An Elder Scroll… got it." Kiera nodded, a strained smile on her face, wondering if she should tell them about the fact that they already have one.

…

AN: Ver-Mi-Thor here means Strength Fury Thunder. It's not a proper translation to the Dovahzul language, but I'm taking a creative liberty as those traits are what defines Vermithor, essentially.

Also, Harkon makes his first move, taking over the Northwatch Keep that (if you look in the map) is literally right next to Castle Volkihar. It honestly surprised me how close they were. A thalmor base basically in Harkon's backyard.

It makes sense for Harkon to take it over as a sort of landing base for his forces. Endur is just an OC Thalmor I decided to use for the POV on everything that happened there.

As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 46 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!