All my life I have been coming last.
And I’m almost sick to death of it.
I was the last to be born to my teulu; the only son with five sisters before me.
But instead of being the golden son, I was born with anti-Minhas touch. Everything I touched turned to Murkuk’s dung!
I was the last to do everything.
Walking. Talking. Wielding a short sword. My sisters did it all before me. Not just in a they-were-born-years-before-me kind of way. At the age I finally relinquished my mother’s nipples, my sisters had all learned how to hunt and skin Kopyns.
It extended beyond my family too.
When I was in the academy I was the last at doing everything.
Swing a sword.
Loose arrows.
Hunting. Skinning. Humping.
I was always the last over the line; the last one to earn the notch.
It was a common joke, “Daedric The Last”, because my incompetence meant everyone prophesised our dynasty would end with me.
My father, I think he always wanted to believe I wasn’t the scourge of our teulu so many took me to be. He was patient, he chose love over cruelty to mould me.
Then came the night when they invaded. They came to enslave us, to destroy our civilization.
It was the greatest assembly of the elders our teulu had ever known, each strongman and his son stood beside one another. Ready for battle, ready to die shoulder to shoulder in defence of the realm.
Except my father.
I dressed into my battle armour then found my father in counsel with the other elders.
“I am here to serve, father. To fight alongside you with the other strongmen,” I declared proudly.
Instead of putting his arm around me and facilitating my transformation to manhood…
…he cut me down into a scullery maid.
“You are needed with the others, Daedric”, he spoke with an unyielding inflection. I also noted his use of my name, not the endearment that was typically used for me.
“You are to go with the evacuees,” my father mandated.
“The women, children and the infirm”,” I questioned. “It is my destiny to stand beside you, until death.”
“Skyrim needs you elsewhere, Daedric,” my father snapped.
Fucking “Daedric” again.
“The evacuation will need a bastion, a strong symbol to continue our teulu’s blood into the next chapter. Your survival and the seed within you is the last hope for us now.”
I never saw him again. I never saw my teulu or my planet again either.
The invaders came and they were ruthless, wiping out my people like a giant crushing insects underfoot.
They all died, a whole race driven towards existence until there was just me.
The Last.
Except I am done being The Last.
The last of my people.
The last of my teulu’s blood.
I go now in search of my true destiny.
Not to be the last of my father’s dynasty.
But the first in my own.
To fulfil that I will be The Last one more time.
The last one standing at Deathstrike.