Prologue-4E 20:
His wind almost completely spent, a young elf hurled himself behind a carelessly stacked array of empty crates that indicated a recent shipment of fruits and vegetables to the inn. He drew rapid, shallow breaths in ragged little gasps of air that tore at his throat going in and coming out. His heart threatened to bruise the inside of his ribs with its aggressive beating, and for a few moments he could only lay motionless where he had landed while his body tried to restore its various functions to normal. If someone were to ask him he would have sworn on the eight that he had lain there for an hour, but an observer walking by at the the time would not even count a minute’s passage before he stirred from the tangle of bony arms and legs he had fallen into. At that point, no doubt, this concerned passerby would be assured that the child was indeed alive, and unless they held some vested interest in the crates he had taken refuge among and took mind to scold him for his choice of napping places, would likely move on, even if they remained somewhat curious about his activities.
This observer would thus not notice that the elf’s next action was to furtively raise his head over the top of the crates in search of his pursuers. In a flash, heart rate spiking once more he tumbled from his precarious perch as he immediately found himself staring straight into a wide, empty, black eye. However the next moment would reveal this to be set in the face of a seagull, which was at least as offended by Torinaan’s presence as he was by it. An indignant croaking noise accompanied a flurry of feathers as it abandoned its chosen resting place in search of one without any unwelcome guests. After allowing his heart to return to its normal rate once more he rose again, even more carefully than the first time until, at an impossibly slow rate, he had raised his head over the top of the crates once more, this time not encountering any surprise wildlife. He cast his glance across every bit of the narrow street he could lay eyes on, until he was able to reassure himself that he was, for the time being, safe.
Torinaan released a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding, and as air exploded from his lungs he sank down once again behind the boxes, sitting as comfortably he possibly could, although no matter where he rested his back he seemed to find the corner of a crate driven painfully into some muscle. He sat for some time, reasoning that even if he couldn’t do anything about the filth that already coated the clothing he wore, he could at least return home suitably composed in all other ways, with both his breathing and his thoughts calmed from their current racing state. Of course, this wouldn’t help very much, because unless by some miracle his father wasn’t home, he would guess exactly what had happened the second he laid eyes Torinaan.
At the thought of facing his father, a feeling of panic rose up, settling somewhere in Torinaan’s chest, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He knew his father was disappointed that he constantly allowed the band of young human boys get the better of him, but he just couldn’t help it. There were so many of them, and though Torinaan stood taller than every one of them by at least a couple inches, the slight advantage in reach wasn’t even close to compensating for the lankiness of his frame. By contrast all of the boys, especially the nords in the group that tended to take the lead roles when it came to confrontations, seemed built to be fighters. They were built about as solidly as it was possible for fifteen year old boys to be built, and knew exactly how to use every bit of that muscle mass to deliver a blow. Of course none of this made any difference to his father, an extremely powerful battlemage and one of the top advisors to the emperor from the Altmer of the Summerset Isles.
“The humans are inferior to us in almost every way, Torinaan,” his voice would crack like a whip, with his almost delicate visage twisted into a mask of fury, “and yet every day you return home with yet more bruises gained by their hand.” Often Torinaan thought that it was really his father's fault that he was exposed to such an environment anyway, since without his role in the emperor's court their family would still be in the Summerset Isles, where he would be growing among his own people. He had only been fool enough to mention this once though, and it had resulted in a unprecedented lashing in response. That would have been enough, but all such discussions would inevitably turn to the only topic which Torinaan wanted to avoid even more than his bullies: his inability to use the magic that was the birthright of his people. It was a point of deep shame for the young elf, for even his young brother, only eight years past his first name day could already conjure up colorful lights and send them dancing about the ceiling, where, much to his own delight he would set them to performing various movements while he sat watching them and clapping his hands. Meanwhile, Torinaan spent all of his time studying scrolls, but no matter how much knowledge he accumulated he would be a disappointment in the eyes of his father and an outcast in the eyes of his kind.
With these thoughts leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, Torinaan finally rose and set off for his home, accompanied by a still present ghost of his panic, manifesting itself as a feeling of unease in his chest, as if his breaths weren’t drawing in quite as much air as they should. It was a familiar feeling, as it accompanied him on every journey home that he knew would have an unpleasant encounter at its end. He had not made it more than twenty feet from the crates that had been his shelter when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. In response, Torinaan’s heart sank impossibly low, while at the same time jumping into his throat. They waited. They waited this whole time. He was spun about and thrown roughly to the ground, where he rolled painfully to his back and looked up, knowing exactly what he would see. They waited.
The worst part of these events was that the whole lot of boys who insisted on tormenting him were the very same boys that, in his youth he had enjoyed romping about with. For all of their childhoods, his pointed ears and narrow features hadn't seemed to matter a bit to them. Then, just over a year ago, everything had changed. It was subtle at first, he was either left out of their games or given the worst roles, and more and more jokes were made with him as their target. Before he knew what had happened it was just complete, unhidden prejudice that manifested itself and violent physical attacks and slurs. All of this passed through Torinaan's mind subconsciously as he prepared to face his attacker.
Staring down at the fallen elf was the broad face of Dargeir Stormcloak, the second son of the one of Skyrim’s Jarls who had been sent to the Imperial City to earn an education, although it was likely that his presence there was also serving to temper his father’s warlike tendencies-or at the very least preventing the empire from becoming the target of any united military action on the part of the nords, which would no doubt be led by Eirald Stormcloak if it were to happen. The lad was the tallest out of all the human boys and strong as an ox, although admittedly a rather young ox. The slightest suggestion of a beard was sprinkled across his face, a collection of hairs whose sum total likely did not exceed fifty, but it was something the young nord took tremendous pride in, as all of his comrades still boasted smooth cheeks and chins.
Dargeir made a great show of rubbing this growth while he gazed down at Torinaan’s prostrate form. “Well, up with ye’ then elf,” he called, “I won’t have it said that I struck a downed foe, it’s bad for me’ honor ye’ see!” He guffawed loudly, and his comrades laughed with him. Everyone there knew just as well that whether he struck while Torinaan was on his back or allowed him to stand up made no difference. For a moment, Torinaan even considered remaining down just to slight the nord and his “honor” but he quickly dismissed the thought. He would face his next bunch of bruises standing on his feet at the very least. As he rose slowly to his feet, he felt something building inside of him, some sort of adrenaline burst. He knew it to be a false promise, he had felt such a rush through many of these encounters, but had long since discovered it didn’t make him any better at fighting, just allowing him to face his next defeat with more energy.
This time however, there was something more. As he drew himself to his full height, Torinaan felt something deep inside himself that he had never felt before. Something was pulling desperately, raging inside him and struggling to break free. In front of him the world seemed to slow as a Dargeir, still grinning a broad, yellow-toothed grin drew back his fist.
Something snapped.
There was another, even greater rush inside Torinaan and this time it was accompanied by a sensation of unimaginable euphoria. Before Dargeir’s fist could land Torinaan struck the nord across the face. His expression changed from an arrogant grin to open mouthed shock for a moment before he began to scream. The blow had left a red mark on the nord’s face, and it was not a the red welt left by the impact of skin on skin. It was a violent, bubbling and blistering burned red, accompanied by the odor of burnt flesh as well as the singing of those few hairs. Torinaan looked down at his hand, somewhat in shock himself, to see flames flickering and dancing about his fingertips. Dargeir reeled away and stumbled off into the alley that he had, presumably been hiding in while he waited for Torinaan earlier.
A grin began to spread across his face as he turned his attention to the remaining members of the group. Frozen as they were by fear, they would have made easy prey, but Torinaan discovered that he really seemed to have no control over the fire. For a fleeting moment he had an illusion that it would jump from his fingers and singe the lot of them to ash, but instead it clung stubbornly to his hands. It was probably for the best, for his lack of knowledge of magic was the only thing then that kept him from killing the whole lot of them, condemning himself to prison or death. Instead, after a couple tense moments their legs began to work once more and the group quickly scattered among the streets, leaving Torinaan alone, fire still dancing both at his fingertips and in his eyes.
As he watched his former tormenters retreat he thought back to the feeling of his palm, ignited with magefire, striking the face of Dargeir,
and he thought that he had never felt so alive.
At Any Cost - A Skyrim AAR
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. Thank you for your astonishingly kind words.
Originally Posted by McScottish
) and I like how you capture the Thalmor way of thinking about him. I wonder what the next chapter of Torinaan's life will hold for him.
