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Svarnor

Shadowcloak of Nocturnal
This is a one-installment story based off the idea that another warrior, one who is not the Dragonborn, managed to make their way to Skuldafn and through the portal to Sovngarde. The only breach of lore is that Dragons would actually capture people and then devour them, but, due to the fact that dragons carry guards and other NPCs off in combat, and that Odhaviing suggests that dragons eat the living, I think it makes sense, and doesn't breach lore, I hope.

I consider myself both the luckiest and the unluckiest Nord in history. I am a true Nord, a Son of Skyrim, and am also one of the few, if any, to every gaze upon Sovngarde as a living being.
I remember marching along the northern base of the Throat of the World. We had orders from Ulfric to make camp near Whiterun as soon as possible, and await the coming of one of the other soldiers. The man who saved our hides from that ambush while recovering the Jagged Crown.
It was Stone-Fist's idea. Good old Stone-Fist. He said 'Why march around the mountain when we can go over it? We're true Stormcloaks, not a group of Milk-Drinking Thalmor! Let's climb.'
The rest of us, either in complete agreement or not wanting to be compared to the Thalmor, curse them, Immediately set off up the slope. We moved at a fair pace, heading North-West, as we'd come from Ivarstead, where we'd gathered more warriors. Before long, we could see that the mountain curved ahead of us, no doubt that was the peak where we would be able to turn and head due west into Whiterun Hold.
There was an old ruin I'd heard of, on top of the peak. One of those funny walls, written in the old languages. Shearpoint, the townspeople called it. Lovely name, don't you think?
We had just made it up the path, which had curved around south, but would turn north again before long, and Shearpoint came into view.
That was when things went wrong.
Perched atop the wall was either a dragon, or the largest lizard I have ever seen, with wings and the power to call on Thu'um. It wasn't looking our way, instead staring at something on the ground. A figure, clad in robes, and gripping a staff in one hand. The figure and the dragon hadn't noticed us yet, and I glanced over at Stone-Fist, and he caught my eye. The commanding officer and I shared a single look, and we both knew what the other was thinking.
Borri
Borri was one of the newest recruits, and, as we'd discovered during the fighting for the Jagged Crown, was prone to charging into battle with barely a thought in his mind, killing anything he decided was a threat to him, the Stormcloaks, or Skyrim. The commander knew that we, a group of scarcely thirty men, would have no chance of taking on a dragon. Luckily, Borri hadn't come over the hill yet. Galmar turned quickly, saying: 'Turn around! The mountain is too steep for us to-'
And then Borri saw the dragon.
'For Skyrim!' shouted the younger man, pushing past his superior. Galmar tried to stop him, but even if Stone-Fist had succeeded, it would be too late.
The dragon had spotted us.
It rose up, its wings like the beat of a deadly drum. It exhaled, and flame poured from it's mouth. Borri, whether lucky or not, I cannot decide, was an excellent warrior and dove at just the right moment, rolling away from the flame.
He came up face to face with the robed man. Before the man could speak, Borri swung his axe, aiming for the unfortunate fellow's neck.
The blow never arrived.
Fast as lightning, the man blocked the swing with his staff. The steel cut deep into the polished wood, and there was a sudden burst of magic, which blew Borri backwards. The recruit slammed into the cliff face, and I was sure that I heard a bone crack. But Borri, injured as he was, staggered back to his feet and moved forwards once more.
I glanced at Stone-Fist once more, and we both knew what we had to do. Borri would send himself to Sovngarde, and we were cowards not to stand with him.
'For Skyrim!' roared Stone-Fist, and we charged forward, firing our bows at the dragon and slashing with our axes when it got too close. It was looking pretty fine, and I almost thought we might last long enough to kill this thing, when the robed man raised a palm, and fire blasted forth, killing six men in the first moment.
The fire caught my left arm, luckily not my axe-arm, and I was forced to focus on putting it out. I kneeled, piling snow from the earth onto my burned appendage, and knowing that I would loose the arm. The rest of the force, save Stone-Fist and the few who weren't injured, scattered, trying to do the same.
The dragon swooped down, and time seemed to slow. It came from before me, and as I stumbled back away from it, the creature caught me in one massive set of claws. It flew back up, and I had the horrible realization that when it landed again, I would serve to fill it's stomach.
The creature swooped again, picking up the robed figure, and then drifted off, away from the mountainside. I saw Stone-Fist, throwing down his axe and snatching up a bow from a fallen Shield-Sibling, but we were too far. Already the dragon was winging it's way east, towards Riften, and Morrowind beyond.
The last thing I heard before loosing consciousness was my own voice, shouting 'Whiterun! Take Whiterun! Do not abandon our cause!'
And I saw no more.
When I awoke, I was lying on something that reeked of wet wool and rotting meat. As it turned out, that was exactly what it was. I opened one eye, and saw that I was lying on a mound of slain livestock, goats, chickens, even a pair of cows were here.
The dragon's feeding pile.
I heard voices. Speaking in the ordinary tongue.
'Let us speak the language of my people. It gives me headaches to translate to Dov.'
That was a human voice. A raspy, ancient human voice that sounded like it hadn't been used in milennia.
'I feel the same way, my friend, for your tongue.' a deeper voice, almost a growl. Like the roll of thunder.
'Krosis would not awaken. It is not his time.' spoke the raspy voice
'and you would have me do what about that?' asked the deep voice
Into my line of sight strode two figures. The robed man, who was speaking once more,
'You must return and await his awakening.'
And the deeper one, which, I realized, was in truth the voice of a dragon.
'You would have me wait there, when I am only just returned from the grave, and wait there? What of the man I caught? Would you deny me my meal?'
'There are many dead there. You ensured that. Also, it is not I who says that you must return, but the World-Eater himself. Do you wish to defy his commands?'
'Bah... Krosis... He will regret treating the Dov so poorly some day.'
The dragon suddenly sprang straight up, using his wings to propel himself into the air. As the dragon soared away, I could not hold in a slight gasp.
The robed man, who moved in a strange, drifting fashion, turned towards me.
'Ah... Is my little friend awake?' he asked, bending over me. Before he could cast some spell over me, for I have no doubt that he was a Mage of some sort, I leapt up, and, finding my axe near me, hit him square in the forehead with the butt of the weapon.
His magic, which had injured Borri so badly, did not protect him against that...
I turned, and for, for the first time, got a look at my surroundings. I was standing on a platform, high in the mountains. I must have been near the Morrowind border, because I could see Riften, and beyond it, the sun was setting. I wasn't thinking of the view, however, as I also saw that there was no escape that way. I turned and ran, stumbling over uneven flagstones. Rounding a corner, I saw a pole affixed to the earth. Without bothering to look beyond the mage's staff, I glanced backwards and saw him coming, already rounding the corner.
Then I trip. Falling forwards. For one moment, I thought. 'What a terrible way to die. Butchered by a Mage because I tripped.'
And then I was gone.
The world was a sea of blues, greens, and oranges. Reds danced around as well. After a few moments of falling through nothingness, I appeared, quite suddenly at the top of a staircase.
One thing that I must remind the reader of. I am a Skald. A warrior poet. I graduated them Bards' Collage before the war began, and had been working as a mercenary and a bard. I knew from the old stories what Sovngarde looked like.
And this was it.
The landscape was like that of the plains near Whiterun, with mountains soaring up in the distance. I walked along a path for quite a while, next to which a stream flowed.
As I walked, I passed many. Stormcloaks and Imperials alike, walked this long trail. I saw, to no surprise on my part, Borri, who would have been granted acceptance here for his bravery in charging the dragon. When he saw me, however, his face, which had been one of joy, darkened.
'Did you fall as well, Shield-Brother?' he asked of me 'Curse my eagerness for driving us both from beautiful Skyrim.'
'Nay' I replyed, and he looked up in surprise 'I was carried off by the dragon, and by the magic of the Mage who killed you, I was brought, still living, to this wondrous place'
Borri looked at me with sad eyes 'Then, though you may yet find some way to return to great Skyrim, my loss it yet more bitter, for I have no friends along with me.'
And off he went.
Ere long time was passed, I saw from afar a great island of rock, with a hall set upon it, and a bridge, made of whale-bone, lead to it. That was The Hall of Valour, where all the Nordic heroes since Ysgramor have gone in their afterlife. It is said to be a place of much feasting and song, but I turned aside, for it was not my time to go to that great hall, and from far off I could see already the figure of Tsun, as the legends describe him. Bare-Chested, with a great axe slung over one shoulder, and one-half time greater in height than a man. How long I wandered those fields, I do not know, for the sun was hidden, and I never grew hungry or thirsty or tired.
I wrote many things in this notebook, which I had kept in my pack, and I realize something that I hope the reader will realize too. Sovngarde brings out the best. I have seldom felt sorry or sad since I came her, except that I never wished my wife and children goodbye. No doubt Stone-Fist will send them message, and they will mourn me greatly. In other ways, however, my mind has also increased. As I practice with my axe, as I know I should, I find myself swifter and stronger than before. Also, my writing has become greatly refined, as has my speech when I go down to speak with the dead.
Let me now arrive at the reason for this writing
After many days, something came from the stair where I had appeared. I had heard the reports from Helgen, and knew what it was.
It was a dragon.
The dragon flew over the valley, and where it went, the valley was covered in fog. I saw it swoop down, and devour men, only to spew back out their spirits, twisted and corrupted into black, horrible things. Knowing that my time is limited, I have quickly put this story to paper. I doubt I shall survive these spirits when they see me and attack, for they are the souls of the heroes of our time.

They have seen me. The dark things are gathering.
I shall die a true Nord's death, with my axe in hand and an enemy before me.
 

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