Freyja stood in the middle of the chamber, gripping the hilt of her sword so tightly that her knuckles were pale. The only light came from the torch in her left hand, its flames flickering and sputtering as though it would go out at any second. Shadows danced across the walls, warping the skeletal remains in the alcoves and the jagged carvings into something even more menacing.
The growls of the Draugr echoed from every direction. She could see their glowing blue eyes moving in the darkness, circling her like predators waiting to pounce. Her breathing was shallow, her chest heaving as she tried to focus.
One of the Draugr lunged at her from the side. She turned sharply, raising her sword just in time to block the strike. The rusted blade of its axe scraped against her weapon with an ear-piercing screech. Sparks flew as she pushed back, using every ounce of strength she had to force it away.
The Draugr staggered, and she saw her opening. She swung her sword, the blade slicing through the creature's neck. Bone and sinew gave way, and its head fell to the ground with a heavy thud. The body collapsed in a heap, but before she could catch her breath, another growl came from behind her.
She spun around, her torchlight catching the snarling face of another Draugr. This one carried a sword, its bony fingers gripping the hilt tightly as it charged at her. Freyja raised her blade, parrying its first strike. The force of the blow rattled up her arms, nearly making her drop her weapon.
She stepped back, the edges of her boots scraping against loose stone. She swung wildly, her sword catching the Draugr's shoulder and cutting through decayed flesh and brittle bone. The creature hissed, its glowing eyes narrowing as it lunged again.
Her muscles burned with exhaustion, and her lungs felt raw as she sucked in shallow breaths. She couldn't keep this up. The Draugr kept coming, and she could feel more moving just beyond the reach of her torchlight.
She wanted to scream, but her voice felt caught in her throat.
Freyja's mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, but she found none. Her thoughts drifted back to how she'd ended up in this nightmare.
She hadn't wanted to be in Skyrim anymore. The war had made life unbearable. She wasn't a soldier, didn't care about the Nords' rebellion or the Empire's rule. All she wanted was peace, but Skyrim didn't have that to offer.
Crossing the border had seemed like her only option, but she'd been caught. The Imperials didn't care that she wasn't a rebel. She was thrown onto a cart with other prisoners, her wrists bound, and her fate decided.
The journey to Helgen had been long and cold. She remembered the tension in the air, the way the rebels whispered about Ulfric Stormcloak sitting just a few feet away. The man seemed larger than life, even in chains, and his presence had only made her situation feel more surreal.
Then they'd arrived at Helgen.
The morning air had been crisp, the kind that bit into her skin and made her breath visible. She'd been lined up with the others, her heart pounding as the Imperials barked orders. One by one, prisoners were dragged to the executioner's block. The axe fell with sickening precision, each strike accompanied by the sound of flesh and bone splitting apart.
She had been next.
Her knees had nearly buckled as they called her name, but before she could move, the roar had come.
The ground had shaken violently, the sound unlike anything she'd ever heard. When she looked up, her blood had turned cold. A dragon—an enormous black beast with glowing red eyes—descended from the sky.
Its wings were massive, each flap sending gusts of wind strong enough to knock people off their feet. Its roar split the air again, and the force shattered the roof of the tower it landed on. Debris rained down, crushing anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path.
The dragon's fire was relentless. It poured from its mouth in torrents, engulfing buildings and people alike. The heat had been unbearable, searing her skin even from a distance. Entire structures collapsed under its wrath, the stone walls crumbling as though they were made of sand.
Freyja had run, the chaos around her making it impossible to think. She remembered stumbling over bodies, some still burning, as she fled. The screams of the dying had echoed in her ears, mingling with the roars of the dragon and the sounds of collapsing buildings.
She'd barely escaped, diving through a gap in the wall just as the dragon's fire consumed the gate behind her. Even now, the memory made her stomach turn.
Somehow, she'd ended up in Whiterun, exhausted and shaken. She'd told the Jarl about the dragon, her voice trembling as she recounted the destruction. His court mage had been the one to suggest Bleak Falls Barrow, claiming the stone within was of great importance.
She'd refused at first. Only fools willingly ventured into places like that. Bleak Falls Barrow was infamous for its dangers—hordes of Draugr, giant spiders, and gods knew what else.
But the Jarl's offer had been too tempting. A house in the Cloud District, along with the coin to furnish it, was a prize she couldn't turn down. Skyrim was dangerous now, especially for women. Break-ins and attacks were common, and the Cloud District was the safest place she could hope for.
The task hadn't seemed so bad at first. She'd snuck past the bandits at the entrance and even dealt with a massive spider that had nearly killed her. Arvel the Swift, the rat she'd found tangled in the web, had been a problem, but she'd dealt with him too.
But the Draugr had been worse than she imagined. There were so many of them, and they just kept coming.
Now she was trapped, surrounded with no way out.
Another Draugr lunged at her, its axe swinging toward her side. She stepped back, the blade missing by inches, and countered with a quick slash. Her sword bit into its ribs, cutting through decayed flesh and brittle bone. The creature staggered, and she followed up with a thrust to its chest.
It collapsed at her feet, but more stepped into the light, their glowing eyes piercing through the darkness. She was outnumbered, outmatched, and out of options.
Her arms were heavy, her muscles burning with exhaustion. The torch in her hand sputtered, threatening to go out.
This was it.
She was going to die here.
A loud thud echoed from above, shaking dust and small bits of stone loose from the ceiling. Freyja froze, her eyes darting upward. Something heavy landed on one of the higher platforms, and before she could process what was happening, it jumped.
A man landed in front of her with a loud crack, his feet striking the stone hard enough to send tiny fragments flying. He wore nothing but a black robe that had ripped off him when he jumped for some reason, and now his bare skin gleamed in the flickering light.
Freyja stared at him, her mind struggling to make sense of what she was seeing.
"What..." she said dumbly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man turned his head, his expression calm, almost bored. "I'll handle this," he said, his voice low and steady.
Before she could respond, he charged at the Draugr. And handle things he did.
Freyja stood frozen, her torch trembling in her hand as the man lunged at the Draugr without hesitation. His bare feet slammed against the stone floor, and before the closest Draugr could react, he grabbed its arm mid-swing, snapping it like a brittle branch. The rusted sword fell to the ground with a loud clang, but he didn't stop. He crushed its skull with his fist, the sound of bone shattering making her stomach churn.
Her breath caught as two more Draugr charged him. One swung a war axe at his side, the other aimed a sword at his chest. The axe hit first, glancing off his ribs as though he were made of steel. The sword met a similar fate, breaking in half as it struck him. The man grabbed both Draugr by the necks and slammed their heads together with a sickening crunch, letting their limp bodies drop to the floor.
Freyja backed away, pressing herself against the cold stone wall. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The Draugr were relentless, but this stranger was unstoppable. A group of them raised their hands, the air growing colder as frost magic crackled to life. The ice spells shot toward him, surrounding him in a swirling mist of freezing air and jagged shards. Freyja shivered just watching it, the torchlight flickering weakly against the onslaught.
But he didn't falter. The frost clung to his skin, forming a thin layer of ice that cracked and fell away as he moved. He stepped through the icy haze and grabbed the nearest spellcaster, snapping its arm like dry kindling before hurling it into the others.
She couldn't tear her eyes away. The Draugr's numbers were thinning, their glowing eyes flickering with what almost looked like fear. Still, they came at him, clawing, stabbing, and swinging their weapons.
Freyja flinched as an arrow zipped past her, the sound sharp in the confined space. The man caught it mid-flight, snapping it in two before turning to the archer. He crossed the chamber in two massive strides, grabbing the Draugr by the face and slamming it into the ground.
The room fell silent.
Freyja's torchlight flickered over the aftermath—broken weapons, shattered bones, and the dust of ancient flesh. The man stood in the center of it all, his chest rising and falling steadily. He brushed the dust from his hands, smirking as he turned to her.
"Told you I'd handle it," he said, his voice calm, as though what had just happened was no big deal.
Freyja's legs gave out. The adrenaline that had kept her upright drained from her body in an instant. Her sword clattered to the ground as she fell to her knees, the torch slipping from her fingers. She barely noticed as it rolled across the floor, the flames casting shadows on the walls. She tried to speak, but no words came. Her vision blurred, the edges darkening as her body refused to cooperate any longer. The last thing she saw before her consciousness left her was the man tilting his head, his expression unreadable.
Then everything went black.
...
Tsun watched as the woman crumpled to the floor, her sword clattering out of her grip and her torch rolling a few feet away. He stood there for a moment, the silence of the chamber pressing in around him. His bare chest rose and fell with the remnants of exertion, but he felt... awkward.
He glanced at the mess of shattered Draugr bodies surrounding him, then back at the unconscious woman. Her head lolled to the side, her blonde hair matted with sweat and blood.
"That's the last time I try a cool entrance," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.
Sighing, he crouched down and carefully picked her up, draping her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She was lighter than he expected, her ragged armor offering little resistance against his grip. With his free hand, he reached down and grabbed her sword and the torch, the latter casting a faint orange glow over the debris-strewn floor.
"This is your fault," he said to her limp form. "Passing out in the middle of a creepy tomb? Rookie mistake."
The chamber was too open, the piles of Draugr bodies too numerous. He didn't like it here—too exposed. He needed to find somewhere smaller, somewhere safer. He moved through the corridors, his footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. The air was damp and carried a faint, sour smell of decay. He glanced into alcoves as he passed, each one holding old skeletons or broken urns. The occasional rat skittered by, their claws scratching against the stone.
After a few minutes, he found a smaller room. It was simple, rectangular, and dimly lit by the torch in his hand. A single stone sarcophagus sat in the center, its lid slightly ajar. Broken pottery and coins littered the floor, and a thick layer of dust coated everything.
"Better than nothing," he muttered.
Tsun walked over to the sarcophagus and gently set the woman down next to it, leaning her back against the cold stone. Her head lolled slightly before settling against her shoulder. He crouched down in front of her, setting the torch beside them and her sword within reach.
He hesitated for a moment, then brushed her blood-matted hair away from her face. Her skin was pale, with streaks of dirt and dried blood. Up close, her features were delicate—sharp cheekbones, a small nose, and full lips that were slightly parted.
"Huh," he said, tilting his head. "You're actually kind of cute, I expected a lot less considering where we are."
Her chest rose and fell steadily, her breathing soft but shallow. His eyes trailed down to her belt, where a leather skin hung alongside a small pouch that jingled when she moved.
He picked up the water skin, unscrewing the cap and sniffing it. The faint metallic scent of water greeted him. He took a cautious sip and immediately grimaced.
"Bleh," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tastes like crap. Guess water's different in this time period."
He considered splashing it in her face to wake her up but thought better of it. Her armor was dented in several places, and dried blood streaked her exposed skin. She needed to rest more than she needed a rude awakening.
"Fine, sleep it off," he muttered, screwing the cap back on and placing the water skin beside her.
Standing up, he looked around the room. The sarcophagus was large and ornate, its stone carvings faded but still visible under the dust. A few shattered urns were scattered around it, their contents spilled out—mostly broken pottery, but there were also gold coins and a few gems. He crouched by one of the piles, sifting through the debris. He picked up a handful of gold coins, running his fingers over the uneven edges. The gems caught his eye next—a ruby the size of his thumb and a smaller emerald.
"Now this is more like it," he said with a grin.
Grabbing a piece of ragged cloth from one of the broken urns, he wrapped the coins and gems into a makeshift pouch. Holding it up, he looked around for somewhere to stash it. After a moment of consideration, he pressed the bundle against his chest. The cloth sank into his skin, vanishing completely.
"Neat trick," he said, patting his chest.
With the room secure and the woman still unconscious, Tsun leaned back against the sarcophagus and crossed his arms. He didn't like sitting still, and his thoughts drifted back to his body and what it could do. He had already bent and twisted himself in ways that would snap a human in half, but he hadn't pushed it further yet.
"Well, might as well kill some time," he said.
He stood up, his eyes scanning the room. Near the corner was a large jar, its mouth barely wide enough to fit a human arm. He walked over to it and crouched down, inspecting it.
"Let's see how this goes," he muttered.
He pressed his hands against the jar's rim, his body starting to shift. His chest compressed inward, the muscles flattening and stretching unnaturally. His shoulders narrowed, and his torso twisted as he slid headfirst into the jar.
It was an uncomfortable fit, but his body continued to adjust. His legs folded in ways that shouldn't have been possible, bending backward and tucking against his torso. In a matter of seconds, his entire frame was crammed into the jar.
From the inside, he peered out of the jar's narrow opening and grinned. "Weird, but it works."
Sliding out of the jar, he straightened up and stretched, his bones popping audibly as they returned to their natural positions.
Next, he eyed a small gap in the wall near the floor, no wider than eight inches. He dropped to his knees, flattening himself against the stone. His ribs compressed, and his shoulders folded inward as he slithered forward. It took a few seconds, but he slipped through the gap, his body shifting and twisting with ease.
He emerged on the other side, brushing dust off his arms. "Now that's handy," he said, turning back toward the small opening.
Sliding back through the gap, he returned to the room and leaned against the sarcophagus again, his arms crossed. The woman was still unconscious, her chest rising and falling steadily.
"Well," he muttered, "Guess I'll just wait."
___________________________
Meanwhile, Freyja was standing in the open field behind her grandfather's home. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Birds chirped from the trees that bordered the clearing, their songs adding to the sense of peace that always came when she was here.
She looked down at herself, adjusting the leather riding pants she wore. The brown fabric fit snugly, allowing her to move freely without hindrance. Her white tunic was loose but comfortable, cinched at the waist with a simple belt. Her blonde hair was tied back in a long plait that fell over her shoulder, swinging lightly as she moved.
Across from her stood her grandfather, a man whose presence always felt larger than life. His broad shoulders and strong frame belied his age, though streaks of gray peppered his dark hair. He was clad in plain but sturdy training clothes, a wooden practice sword resting against his shoulder.
He smiled at her, his face lined with the deep creases of a man who had spent a lifetime laughing as much as he had fighting. "Ready, Freyja?"
She nodded, gripping her own wooden sword tightly. "Ready."
"Good," he said, stepping forward. "Remember, the stance is your foundation. If your feet aren't steady, you might as well hand your opponent the victory."
She widened her stance slightly, adjusting her balance. Her grandfather nodded in approval before swinging his sword in a sharp arc toward her shoulder.
Freyja raised her weapon to block, the wood meeting with a loud crack. The force of the blow jolted her arms, but she held firm, pushing back and stepping to the side.
"Good reflexes," her grandfather said, circling her slowly. "But don't just react. Anticipate. See what I'm doing and plan your next move before I make it."
He lunged forward, aiming for her side this time. She stepped back, his sword narrowly missing her ribs. She swung her own blade toward his arm, but he deflected it easily, his strength overwhelming hers.
"Control your breathing," he said, his voice calm despite the exertion. "If you panic, you'll lose focus. A warrior with no focus is a dead warrior."
Freyja nodded, forcing herself to breathe deeply as they continued sparring. She managed to parry his next few strikes, each one sending vibrations up her arms. Her muscles burned, but she didn't back down.
He stepped back suddenly, lowering his sword. "Good. You're learning."
She straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "You're going easy on me."
He laughed, a deep and hearty sound. "Maybe. But don't let that fool you. When the time comes, there won't be anyone holding back."
His expression grew serious, and he rested the tip of his sword on the ground. "Freyja, dark omens are on the horizon. The world is shifting, and not for the better. Soon, everyone will have to fight, whether they want to or not."
She frowned, her chest tightening at his words. "What do you mean? What's coming?"
He sighed, looking toward the tree line. "I don't know yet, but the signs are there. War, chaos, death... all of it looms over us like a storm waiting to break."
Turning back to her, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "That's why we train. Not just to survive, but to protect what we hold dear. Remember that, Freyja. Your strength isn't just for you—it's for those who can't fight for themselves."
She swallowed hard, nodding. "I understand."
"Good." His smile returned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Now, let's see if you can land a hit on me before dinner."
She grinned, raising her sword again. "You're going to regret saying that."
Her vision shifted, the edges of the field blurring and fading as her grandfather's laughter echoed in her ears and she felt herself torn away from the memory.
...
Freyja's eyes snapped open, her chest heaving as she jolted upright. The memory of her grandfather's words lingered in her mind, his voice clear even as the dream faded. She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of her surroundings.
The first thing she saw was the man standing a few feet in front of her. He was tall, his massive frame casting a shadow over her. His skin was bare except for a crude loincloth, his muscles defined showed no sign of any injuries from the earlier fight. His broad shoulders and thick arms gave him an intimidating presence, but his expression was calm, almost bored.
His gaze met hers, and he tilted his head slightly. "Hi," he said simply.
___________________________
AN: Our main character has met his first person. And likely the girl who'll be with him for the rest of the fic if you know what I mean, I wonder how Freyja will react to him essentially being a vampire, though I wonder if he can convince her that he is not. Hope you enjoyed.)
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