The Argonian Dovahkiin

Helgen

Mørke woke up in a cart, binds around his wrists. He raised his black scaled head, yellow white eyes gleaming in the morning sun. As he turned his head to survey his surroundings, Ralof noticed the three scars down his face. Lokir the horse thief and the Stormcloak engaged in a conversation that Mørke was uninterested by. Cart wheels clattered to a halt and the ragged crew stepped out, harsh sun beating down on them. Mørke turned his piercing gaze to the imperial, Hadvar.
"Who are you?" Hadvar asked. 
"Mørke of Archon, Black Marsh," the Argonian answered, his gaze staying firmly locked on the Nord man. Quizzically, Hadvar raised an eyebrow," Are you a relative of one of the Riften dock workers, Argonian? I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Black Marsh." Nodding his head ever so slightly, Mørke thought about his homeland. When he was ripped from his thoughts, he made his way to the block, ready to face his death like a Shadowscale of old.

Primeval. A roar rang out.
"What in Oblivion is that?" Chaos ensued and Mørke bolted, scrambling to find cover with the Stormcloaks. Without even stopping, he continued up the watchtower, hoping to get a better look of the dragon beast torching the village. He didn't care for the Stormcloak soldier who was buried under the rubble. At that moment his thoughts were only on how he would escape. The way up was blocked and going back through the other door was a bad idea. A split second passed and Mørke jumped through the hole, down to the burning inn. The Argonian rolled across the wooden planks, letting his momentum take him all the way to the ground, the blows softened.

Who to enter the keep with was the question. The traitor to the empire, or the Thalmor friend who tried to kill him. Mørke loathed the Thalmor but he also loathed how the Stormcloaks treated his kind. He decided the Imperial would be a better idea, at least more in his favour.

When they finally got out, Mørke followed Hadvar to Riverwood, where he took some supplies from his uncle and travelled to Whiterun, encountering an imperial patrol on the way, escorting a Stormcloak rebel. Taking out his bow, Mørke shot one in the head then switched to his sword and killed the other two.
"Thank you!" The rebel shouted as he left. Corpses looted and weapons cleaned, Mørke headed for Whiterun, passing some companions on his way. They had already killed a giant when he arrived so Mørke took no notice of them. He had a job to do.

Upon entering Whiterun, Mørke liked the city. It was homely and the blacksmith looked good. Sure Mørke didn't have that much money yet but he wouldn't need it, hopefully. He made his way up to Dragonsreach. The exterior certainly looked impressive and, while Mørke hadn't asked anyone, he had a sneaking suspicion he knew why it was called Dragonsreach. The dark elf glared at him as he entered, her weapon drawn. Frowning slightly, Mørke unconsciously felt the spark of a flame grow in his hand. If the mer were to attack he would be ready.
"What's the meaning of this? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors," The Mer stated, her tone harsh and critical. Mørke couldn't help but mentally snigger. She wasn't as intimidating as she thought, although Mørke knew it was a bad idea to get on her bad side.
"Alvor sent me. Riverwood is in danger," Mørke replied, coolly, faking friendliness. After talking with the elf for a few more moments, Mørke was allowed to speak with the Jarl.

Jarl Balgruff was a typical Nord in Mørke's eyes. Blonde haired. He wore a crown along with fine clothes. The way he was sat was casual, but at the same time demanded respect. Mørke's eyes met the Jarl's and the pair studied one and other. Mørke could tell that the Jarl had been through a lot and the Jarl could tell that Mørke was not a man to be messed with, from his cold eyes and the blood stains on his stolen armour. Balgruuf spoke first,"So. You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?" Mørke couldn't help but be sarcastic as he spat," Yes. I had a great view while the Imperials were trying to cut off my head." The Jarl was taken aback by this.

"Really? You're certainly... Forthright about your criminal past... But it's none of my concern who the Imperials want to execute. Especially now. What I want to know is what exactly happened at Helgen," Balgruuf had a strong, harsh accent.
"The dragon destroyed Helgen. Last I saw it was heading this way," Mørke felt no need to bring the traitor into this.
"What do you say now, Proventus? Should we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?" The Jarl turned his head to his steward.

"My Lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once," Irileth interjected," It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking somewhere in the mountains..." The steward spoke over her," The Jarl of Falkreath with view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him. We should not-"
"Enough!" Jarl Balgruuf cut him off, his tone somewhat angry," I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" Mørke could almost imagine the Jarl standing up and scolding Proventus like a child.

The court wizard. He seemed nice enough, except he had a sharp tongue and was incredibly quick to judge. Mørke liked him. 
"I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say fetch, what I really mean is delve into a dangerous ruin in search of a stone tablet that may or may not actually be there," Farengar explained. That was more to Mørke's liking. Darkness and death.

"What does this have to do with dragons?" The Shadowscale gave Farengar a questioning look.

"A prospective student perhaps?" Farengar thought aloud then went on to answer the question. 

Mørke was no idiot. He knew help would be useful. Where better to find help than in the inn. In the corner was a Nord woman. She seemed like she could be of use to Mørke. After fighting her bare handed and winning, she agreed to accompany him to Bleak Falls Barrow. The Argonian could barely contain his excitement. Death and darkness. What more could he want?