The Next Dragonborn
It is a time of great upheaval in Skyrim, though few recognize it as such.
Necromancers have learned a new magic that animates the living through the sacrifice of their own. A skilled mage can now control whole villages if he can convince them to mutilate or murder an innocent live victim. The practice is, of course, encouraged by the Aldemeri Dominion. They are quite happy to see villagers butcher themselves around the capitol. So much the easier to put down the last remnants of the Empire: extremists with some fantasy of living according to their own ancient customs.
Somehow, simultaneously, the dark elves have managed to convince most people they don’t even exist. They keep to their embassies and pay town criers (via trusted Breton intermediaries) to ridicule any citizen of standing who wonders too loudly about their objectives.
Dragons are back too. They rampage around the countryside, demanding ten or twenty percent of the wealth held in every province. The last Dragonborn was supposed to have put a stop to this, but the guidance of Paarthurnax was ignored by the following generations, gradually downgraded in esteem from essential to superstitious. “After all,” they said, “no one alive has ever seen a dragon. What are you, a milk-drinker?”
The men of Skyrim are taken by mead and gambling. “Fighting is for Kajit and Falmer,” they say. The women of Skyrim are busy with their market stalls - someone has to pay the dragons, after all. If they don’t, the dragons are quick to claim children for their own dark rites. The streets of Riften and Whiterun are already empty of children’s laughter.
The Kajit, for their part, are quite happy the men are too distracted to organize. They have set up shop inside most of the city walls and are happily peddling a concentrated Skooma known to kill unwary users. The danger is clear and the bodycount is rising, but the trade continues.
Between paying the dragons and staggering home from the Skooma dens, few fully realize how different life under the Dominion has become.
There are a few, however. They meet in secret, in fear of Aldmeri spies listening in with powerful magic spells. They pass around hopeful legends of a new Dragonborn. The next Dragonborn will will visit ancient monasteries and relearn the spells to defeat dragons. The next Dragonborn will destroy the Skooma trade, shield the children of Skyrim, and expose the Aldmeri Dominion. The next Dragonborn will restore the old gods of the Empire and tar the venal town criers.
So they say. So the legend goes. The years tick past and they wonder if perhaps the Dragonborn has already been defeated. Defeated before setting out. Hunted down by the Aldmeri, stuck in a dull market stall, absorbed by a dingy mead hall, hooked on Skooma, or brutalized by necromancers.
No, no, they say. They are sure the Dragonborn is out there. Waiting to hear a few magic words. Waiting to be roused to action. Waiting, unwittingly, to realize that a legendary challenge is waiting for a hero to take the sword.
Talos too, waits with bated breath in Sovngarde, for the hero who will take up the charge. For he, like the faithful in the village, knows that heroism still lives in Skyrim.