Elder Scrolls Academia: A Series of Stories
Book One: The Dragonborn’s Fire and the Lady of Ice
[Diakko, SkyrimAU LMAO, action, adventure, cute goofy fluff, and romance, and dorkiness]
Summary: Diana was unprecedented in her talent for magic, even from her home town of Daggerfall among Breton nobility. But to sharpen her skill to its most lethal, she'd have to train where the cold bit the hardest--Skyrim. Now, the College of Winterhold's foremost student is crossing the threshold from apprentice to full-fledged mage, but her arch-mage mentor had tasked her with one last act to prove herself: Guiding the Dragonborn.
Except, the Dragonborn was hardly what she expected them to be.
[A gift to PyroTato]
---
“Hey, you.”
She blinked through her bleary vision. The first thing she felt was the harsh bite of the cold. Next was the sound of horseshoes clicking against what must have been mud and stone, followed by a view of she could only describe as… white.
“You’re finally awake.”
It wasn’t just white. There were hues of gray and blue, but it was all just merged back into an endless expanse of… white.
She was jolted upwards by a bump in the road—ah, I’m on a carriage—and she tried to right herself but seems she’s been restrained by the wrists. She should have been more panicked, but it wasn’t like this was anything new. Something about her foreign features and red eyes made her an easy target for picking; what’s worse than a foreigner is Skyrim? A foreigner whose origin was a mystery. But she supposed others still had it worse, she was at the very least, as far as she could tell, from the blood of man.
She looked over to the space beside the carriage driver (an Imperial solider, looking still wet behind the ears) to find a locked chest of what must have been their belongings. It looked standard—nothing too hard to pick—made of wood like all the others, and hinges that would give if she pulled hard enough. It was secured onto the cart with two straps of thick leather. Her red eyes scanned the perimeter of the cart of for a sharp object she could use, but her observation was cut short by the thick voice of the Nord who had woken her.
“You were trying to cross the border, right?” He said. His eyes were deep-set, and the dirty blonde of his hair and beard was styled in the proud norther tradition. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us and that thief over there.”
She mulled over the words quietly, still a bit too disoriented to engage. She was hungry, and much too focused on trying to flee. The rest of the men had fallen into conversation, with the thief bemoaning his luck while the Nords seemed to take captivity with dignity. She blinked up at the mention of Ulfric Stormclock—apparently he was the sulking large fellow to her right.
And—oh—they were going to be executed?
No thank you, she tested the strength of her bindings. She’d like to live to eat another sweetroll.
The solider called out that they were arriving soon, and that this was a small town called Helgen. Their reception was less than spectacular and a little mixed—some came out to watch like bored spectators, others screamed, “murder!”, and a handful of parents rushed to drag their children back home; hopefully sparing them the trauma of heads casually lopped off in the name of the Emperor. It was a pity. It seemed like a quiet town with people who weren’t nearly as aggressive as farther up north. There weren’t too many buildings, although all of them were imposing with their stone walls and high beams. Not to mention the Imperial fort at the center, which didn’t look tolerant of any kind of trouble.
And she was trouble in every way that counted.
But also so, so hungry!
They were ushered out of the cart with no small amount of roughhousing, thrown into the ground and yelled-at to fall in line and present themselves to a young officer holding a list. There were several soliders on standby, with a woman donning the helmet of a senior Imperial officer barking out orders for the block to be readied. There rattling of chains mixed in with some commotion—the thief had tried to escape.
Mistake.
He fell limp on the ground, not given a second thought after the arrow sniped him square in the back, through where the heart must have been. She gave a low whistle and looked over at the archer, thoroughly impressed.
“You.” The young soldier called, and suddenly she was shoved forward—closer to that damned execution block—and asked to present herself. “Who are… you?”
She stared back at him, red eyes determined and stomach grumbling persistently.
“You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen on the continent.”
That was probably because as far as the stories have said, she wasn’t. She had to live through a rough life of never belonging with anyone for it—and so she sized him up and for the first time, spoke her name:
“Atsuko Kagari. Who is seriously very hungry.”
---
The mage took a deep, chilling breath. Her blues eyes were fixated on the flute glass of water that sat at the center of her desk. She was tucked away in her study, happy to wait out the winter storm with some semblance of warmth within the tower. But it was always cold in Winterhold, and by now it didn’t bother her one bit.
Slowly, the water began frosting over, solidifying under the sheer force of her will and the careful turning of her hands and fingers.
Gentle movements—no fancy gestures. The water froze and slowly crystalized upwards and towards the center into a haphazard cylinder, but then it twisted into itself, the ice moving in shards forming a frozen whirlpool that began to splinter along the top—branching out it as though it were alive, taking the shape of the dead tree in the middle of Whiterun that she had seen while coming to visit Farengar for advice.
It was a near-perfect replica.
She sat back, satisfied with her work. Shooting out a crass bolt of ice was easy. But this? This was control—and with the way the branches had curved in all the right places, the control was absolute.
Back in High Rock, among the Bretons of high society, she was Lady Diana Cavendish of Daggerfall, whose noble house held property in the Duchy of Cumberland where they grew the most potent plants for medicine.
Her person was synonymous with her name and where she had come from. Even on the years of her life spent travelling between Wayrest and Daggerfall for study, she had been measured by the weight of her name and not her magic.
But she excelled quite handsomely at both. It served her well—Bretons were made of diplomacy and trade in one hand, and magic in the other.
But it wasn’t real enough for her.
Not anymore—not in a country where the most a mage could be was the advisor of a king in court, or a glorified cannon on the battlefield.
She left the warm rolling hills of High Rock for the unforgiving cold in the far, far North.
---
Atsuko was just contemplating the effectivity of rolling out of the way of the very big sword meant to take her head when a giant dragon had swooped in and rudely interrupted her untimely demise.
Alright. Perhaps it wasn’t all that rude.
She knew to take an opportunity when it was handed to her, and she bolted straight for the fort where all the soldiers were taking cover.
It was chaos. Utter chaos. There was a roaring overhead that her blood seemed to recognize, but Shor’s bones, she wasn’t going to take the chance and look. The young officer was yelling instructions to protect the citizenry. The ground was shaking! Stone toppled over as the buildings gave in to the monstrous black claws that swatted them away like brittle clay pots.
But the worst of it all was the fire.
The air was scalding even when a few feet away from the plumes of hellish flame raining down from the dragon’s maw. She cursed her luck, wondering if she really escaped death a moment ago only to die as pile of ashes in the next.
“These goddamned bindings!” She hissed, her breath shaky while she pressed her back against the wall. A shadow shaped like wings blocked out the dreary sunlight and she closed her eyes—praying to every single one of the nine, Azura, and anyone who would listen in between.
There was a guttural rumbling coming up from above and—no. She still wasn’t going to look.
Staying close to the wall was a good idea. The dragon shot down a pillar of fire hotter than anything she’d ever felt burning down the buildings opposite her hiding spot. Just because she was expecting it doesn’t mean she was prepared—her hands shot up to cover her face, and though the heat was overbearing; her skin didn’t burn.
It was over, and the dragon flew back up to douse another part of town in an inferno.
“Foreigner!” A loud, clear voice called out. It was—it was the young officer? He held a dagger, beckoning her to hold out her arms. She thought he’d finish the job that the executioner and the dragon seemed to have left undone, but to her surprise he cut the bindings off and dragged her into the fort though a small entrance at the back.
“Follow me if you want live.” He commanded.
They barged into the relative safety of the fort—Atsuko saw the chest of their belongings from the corner of her eyes. She scrambled towards it, eager to retrieve the only belonging she had carried through the years, but the young officer held out his arm in front of it before she could reach it.
“I’ll unlock it.” He reassured. “Take what’s yours—there should also be some armor along the racks.”
“Why are you helping me?” Atsuko looked over warily, helping herself to the now-opened chest. The axes and shields didn’t interest her, neither did the potions, but—ah. There it is.
“Two can survive the dungeons and the caverns down below better than one.” He looked over towards her. “My name’s Hadvar. I think I—” His eyes widened at the sight of the old, worn sword that she held near her.
This reaction was nothing new, and she’s had her fair share of fending off thugs who thought it was theirs for the taking. They had another thing coming. She knew how to use this, at the very least. The blade was curved and slender, a stark contrast to the heavy, wide swords of Skyrim. The grip was wrapped in dark leather, crisscrossed with finely-embroidered cloth of a deep red, making a pattern of diamonds. The guard was simple, and so was the pommel, and the worn blade itself was dotted with seven, in-laid stars. It seemed the sheath was missing—Atsuko would later scavenge for cloth to wrap it with.
“That’s an Akaviri blade.” Hadvar looked in poorly-concealed surprise. “Where did you truly come from?”
Atsuko rolled her eyes—feeling annoyed despite the threat of a rampaging dragon outside. “I’ve asked myself that question more times that you can ever imagine.”
--
Atsuko had woken up in the house of a blacksmith in Riverwood. With a bit of a headache, she sat down with her head in her palms trying to remember it all. She was hungry. Oh, and about to get executed. The—dragon? Hadvar was leading her through the caverns.
He brought her to his uncle and aunt, and they were kind enough to open their home to her and feed her. They only favor they asked in return was for her to ask Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun for help.
Of course she’d help! She crossed her arms at how tentatively they asked. Did these wonderful people really think she’d turn them down after feeding her the best venison stew her taste buds had ever been graced with?
And so she found herself hiking to the capital of Whiterun Hold. Addvar fashioned her a scabbard out of wood and leather, and her sword hung snugly across her back. The travel was easy, save for the pestering of some wolves, and soon she found herself past Honningbrew Meadery, just about to cross the bridge that led to the slope coming up towards Whiterun Stables.
For the second time in a few days—the world around her was suddenly shaking.
There were… voices. Wailing. Calling. Pounding into her eardrums and her head so strongly that she had lost her balance and nearly fell over. She caught herself on the wooden railing of the bridge that ran over a small stream. Her breathing became erratic, and she clawed at her chest, feeling her knees give in.
Dohvakiin!
Her eyes snapped up, looking around for its source. Her soul felt like it knew that voice but—how?
And why did it sound like a call into battle?
---
She was summed for a meeting by no less than her mentor, the arch-mage, herself.
"Did you hear it?"
Holbrooke looked out from atop the bannisters of the College of Winterhold. Her hands were folded neatly at her back, holding her staff across it, while the wind whipped at their cloaks; cold and merciless from the Sea of Ghosts. The view was always white. One could barely see through the thickness of snow and slat, which would have cut deep into Diana's bones if she hadn't learned the art of befriending the cold from the moment she could cast a spell.
"Somehow." She replied curtly. It was an honest answer; she didn't so much as hear than she felt it.
"The Greybeards call." The arch-mage looked towards her. "The Dragonborn has been summoned."
Diana nodded silently. She looked out into the Horizon, across the dying town at the base of their castle, towards the peaks which she knew was the Throat of the World. It was barely visible on most days, but it seemed the howling winds and frost would reign themselves in to make way for a pronouncement which struck fear as much as it did hope: there is a god amongst men in Skyrim.
It was no longer a legend.
"Did you hear?" Holbrooke began. "Or did you feel?"
Diana turned sharply towards her mentor.
"Because the rest of us could hear, but I reckon you're a little bit different."
"I'm not quite sure I understand—"
"Lady Cavendish of Daggerfall," Holbrooke looked up to her with a burning intensity. "Within the bounds of Skyrim, you will be Diana of the Frost—A proper mage. A proper master. But first—"
The smaller woman stomped the base of her staff into the cold, icy stone of the castle. The action was weak in its physicality, but the waves of magic it had sent cackled like lightning.
Diana's foot inched back a little to keep herself steady against the pulse.
"—you will seek out the Dragonborn and guide them."
---
The arch-mage had sent out word of their search for the Dragonborn of legend, and many responded with cynicism or outright disinterest. Thankfully, there was still brotherhood amongst the College’s alumna and they had agreed to keep their search a secret.
Farengar was the first to respond with any promise. The magical letter he sent was a rather enthusiastic one—of no surprise to Diana. He always spoke… so much.
She rode gracefully on her steed, intent to make up for the few days she spent fixing her affairs with the College before riding out towards Winterhold. It would take more than a half-a-day on horseback, and she had started early, hoping to arrive in the afternoon for some rest before presenting herself to the Jarl, and in turn, her colleague. The icy crags of Winterhold slowly melted away the closer she got to the Pale, and the sight of mud and greenery was more welcome than she thought it would be.
Wolves stalked the roads, but they were a nuisance at best. It was the frost trolls she had to watch out for—her area of expertise in magic was painfully ineffective against them, but she could hold her own if push came to shove. Ice wasn’t the only thing she knew how to weaponize.
She pulled on her hood, her breathing coming out in puffs of thick, misty vapor while she took a moment of respite. She’d been going at it for a few hours now. The land was beginning to turn into an expanse of green and yellow—she was at the border of Whiterun Hold. She could see spires at the top of a walled city on a mountain. Dragonsreach was clearly within view. It reminded her a little bit of High Rock, and riding through Rivenspire and Glenumbra when her mother visited for political affairs.
She bit at her lip, pulling on the reins of her horse as it began to whinny and buck. She didn’t actually know what guiding the Dragonborn meant. How did one guide a human with the soul of a dragon? What wisdom could you impart the mortal incarnation of no less than Akatosh himself?
She had studied many things in the world—more than just magic. She’s seen statue upon statue and endless sketches of Tiber Septim. The conqueror—always standing coldly in stone, uncompromising in his just crusade to unify all nations of Tamriel.
Diana was never one to doubt herself but—what guidance can a mage possibly impart on someone with such power?
She surveyed the land ahead of her, noting there wasn’t much left to cover. Something caught her eye.
It was smoke. And… fire?
She prodded her horse forward and into an urgent gallop, riding straight into the fray of what looked a small skirmish happening on the outskirts of the city walls, near the watch towers.
She was a little bit closer now but then—she gasped. It took everything in her power not to choke up and pull her horse into a full stop as a large, reptilian figure shot upwards from the ground with the beating of wide, leathery wings.
It was horrifying.
Her throat had constricted into tightness—but she grit her teeth and rode on. The closer she came, the more horrible the scene had become. Nameless guards had been gobbled into the drake’s hungry mouth, their helmets falling off and into the dirt, disappearing in a cloud of dust where once a whole man was standing. It looked like the fighting had been going on for some time. She whipped her rains, pressing her feet into the sides of her horse to push him onwards—faster. She could hear their voices now. Screams. There was a dark-elf woman who seemed to be in-command, along with a handful of what must have been the Jarl’s elite guard.
There was also a… a woman with brown hair, whipping around ferociously in tattered imperial leather armor. It looked like it was too large for her, but she wore it masterfully. She was brandishing a curved sword that looked vaguely familiar—but the dragon’s claw was coming down onto her fast and Diana was too far away to stop it and—
“Look out!”
She yelled, the exertion making her lungs burn. The woman was cued in by her shout and had rolled to the side, taking the opportunity of the dragon sinking its claw into the ground to land a clean slice at the underside of its arm.
It roared. That made it angry.
She hopped off her horse now—throwing self-preservation away with reckless abandon. She vaulted into a run, her hands growing cold, ice at her fingertips buzzing with power and anticipation. A cold shot of death waiting to be unleashed.
When the dragon pulled itself upwards to fly back into the air, Diana sent a sharp bolt of ice towards the exposed underside of its torso. Reptiles tended to have soft hides on the underside—and if memory served, dragons were reptiles all the same, albeit overpowered.
All it managed was a small gash, but the creature staggered, losing the momentum it needed to take to the skies. An arrow from the dark-elf general got it straight in the eye. There was hack from a solider at one of its hindlegs. It reared, smoke billowing from its nostrils, and Diana eyes widened—the next thing that would come was fire!
And it was going straight for the brown-haired woman.
On instinct, she reached out, a wall of ice encasing the stranger protectively. It would give her enough time dodge out of harm’s way but—
“By the eight divines, what are you doing?!” Diana yelled. She wasn’t moving at all! She was standing there, biding her time behind the wall of ice while flames engulfed her at every other direction. The dragon was getting frustrated, inching by nearer, and by the gods Diana was good but she wasn’t that good—not yet. That wall was going to melt very soon—it was already starting—but the woman kept steady while the it began to give way. Her left hand was splayed between herself and the dragon and—she had flames.
Flames of her own.
There was a pause where Diana caught a glimpse of red eyes.
Who is she?
The woman made the slightest opening with what she recognized as the gesture for the fireball spell, but how could it—? Against a dragon?
It seemed like it was more of a distraction than it was a hit for damage—it soared through the plume and straight into the dragon’s mouth. In the split second that the fire sputtered out, she lunged forward with her sword, stabbing it straight through the dragon’s throat, gruesomely forcing the sword down, and down, and down to cut an incision all the way through.
The strangled yelping didn’t last very long—the creature soon after collapsed on top of the woman.
Diana’s instinct was to hold the dragon’s body upright with pillars of ice lest it crush the woman completely. She was already falling unconscious. Diana strode forward, noticing that the armor was singed, but she was otherwise unburnt. She was covered in sweat, her breathing was ragged and uneven.
Her hand glowed in the warm light of restoration, holding it flush against the woman’s forehead.
She pulled her gently away from the giant carcass as the soldiers began to gather around them.
“I don’t believe it.” One of them muttered.
She couldn’t either, to be honest. That was a dragon. A full, proper dragon.
And she was alive.
Then the woman began to… glow.
“What’s going on?” Diana muttered to herself, eyebrows knit in confusion at the sight she was seeing. The dragon—it was also glowing. There was something similar to a link in-between them and—
“She’s…”
Diana’s stared in utter disbelief.
“…the Dragonborn.”
---
She’s the Dragonborn.
Diana told herself for the tenth time that evening, watching the woman (Atsuko with remarkable recovery) gouge herself with her third platter of sweetrolls within fifteen minutes of waking up from unconsciousness.
“You’re going to give yourself a stomachache.” The mage carefully offered.
She had frosted butter at the edge of her lip, and those red eyes were round and… charming.
There was no sign of authority.
Not even of ferocity.
She wouldn’t believe this was the same woman from that fight if she hadn’t brought her back into Dragonsreach herself.
“Nah!” Atsuko mumbled through a mouthful of food. A servant came by with a platter of roasted deer—Atsuko’s eyes glazed over. “I can like… eat. A lot. I love food.”
“I’ve noticed.” Diana said evenly.
“So who’re you supposed to be?” Atsuko said absent-mindedly, reaching for the platter which was next-in-line for devouring.
“I’m Diana Cavendish, from the College of Winterhold.”
“Oh.” Atusko blinked. “Okay, awesome.”
Awesome? Diana blinked. She shook her head, clearing her throat and speaking with every ounce of professionalism the life of diplomacy and schooling offered: “Dragonborn—”
“Akko.” She waved her hand.
“—you and I are… going to be stuck together, for a little while.”
--
fin
--
A/N: Pyro - we did it buddy. We did it. This is for you. And all your memes.
Hey guys - no one asked, but I'm writing it anyway, if only because of how much fun and joy this AU has given me. This first chapter is as serious as it gets, unfortunately, because this is gonna be a one-shot dump of SkyrimAU Diakko where they kind of goof around like dorks, except they're overpowered, and sometimes Akko sneezes but shouts 'FUS!' by accident and Diana has to clean it up. The format I'm looking for is each chapter is a separate story about their adventures, much like the books scattered around in Skyrim (because I have no commitment and will focus on Appointments I'm sorry huhuuuhu). You could probably read them on their own - save for chapter 1 which is for context of the rest of the tales of the Dragonborn and her Ice Lady girlfriend.
But if you read it anyway - I hope y'all enjoy and if you wanna share headcanons, by all means, let's make it happen!
