The Legend Yet Grew

Prologue: The Final Enemy


In the southern forests of Skyrim, among the corpses of men and beasts, the Dragonborn gasped rattling last breaths of bloody froth out onto the snowy field, and knew that he was surely dying. His strength had deserted him with age and the long battle, and the mere thought of attempting the Thu'um brought a wracking cough of sputum and lifeblood intermixed to punish his impudent speculation.

No, he thought wearily. This was truly his end. Considering himself, he found only two regrets of significance - his failure to settle this last account, and the solitude of his passing. But both were accountable to his own arrogance.

The skald in him appreciated the poetry in the nearness of his death to Falkreath, the graveyard of heroes. He did not think it too immodest to count himself among their number.

In deference to his understanding, he ceased his struggling, allowing the cold to seep into his bones. It would feel warm, soon, he had heard.

He contemplated his end, and the long path that had brought him here. This quest was one of his own making, known of in no record, a deeply private affair.

His fate as foretold by the Elder Scrolls may have ended with the World-Eater's death at his hands, but it was merely the starting point of the quest that would end his mortal life.

In the long distance, a wolf howled, mourning for brothers lost.