A seasoned-looking man of Nord descent lay unconscious in a wagon being towed by a single horse and rider. He wore the tattered clothes of a poor starving man, but the strength in his arms suggested he was not one to go hungry. His short hair, no more than half an inch long, suggested that he had no concern for style. Shorter hair was less distracting in combat. He lay sideways on a bench, moving only when the bumpy road shook the cart.
Three others were in the wagon with him, silently staring at nothing. The Nord opened his eyes, and slowly rose to a blur of images and a very prominent headache. His vision slowly became clearer, and the sounds around him were becoming recognizable. He heard the sound of a horse's hooves, trotting on the hard ground, and the sound of the wood of the wagon creaking. He could feel the cold wind brushing over his body, causing him to shiver. After sitting up, he shook himself awake to find his hands bound. Now alert, panic shot through his body as he struggled in vain to loosen his bonds. The man across from him turned his attention to the Nord. He had long, wavy golden hair and dirt on his face. His hands were bound as well.
“You,” said the golden haired man. “You're finally awake. You were caught trying to cross the border, weren't you?” The man continued to speak, but the Nord's attention was lost quickly. He surveilled his environment, noticing that the other two in the wagon were also prisoners. His gaze stopped only for a moment on the man to his right, who had a cloth wrapped tightly around his mouth. His curiosity faded only moments later as hopelessness filled him. His legs ached. His head throbbed. His hands were bound, and had been for hours, causing a painful rash to form on his wrists. He was cold, starving, and frightened. Knowing full well that he would meet an almost certain death if he tried to flee, he gritted his teeth as he looked at the back of the armed man riding the horse. He noticed another cart up ahead, also being towed by an armed man on a horse. That cart was full of prisoners as well.
“Shut up back there,” said the solider as the prisoners in the cart with the Nord continued chatting. They promptly ignored him. The golden haired man asked the prisoner next to him what he was doing in Skyrim, and addressed him as “horse thief.” The horse thief showed obvious contempt for both the golden-haired man and the gagged man. He cursed them and blamed them for the current chaos in Skyrim, chaos that the Nord was unaware of.
“You and me, we shouldn't be here,” said the horse thief to the Nord. “It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” The Nord hadn't heard that title, Stormcloaks, before. He paid no heed. His only concern when crossing the border to Skyrim was to return to his homeland and escape his past, which bore several scars on his soul, and one below his left eye. The physical scar was vertical, traveling down his cheek about halfway to his lipline, and reminded him of his past every time he blinked. He would never forget.
The group approached a village full of people watching the wagons enter. A child curiously asked his father what the men entering the village were doing. He was instructed to go inside. Several other villagers chattered amongst themselves. The soldiers nonchalantly ignored all of the bystanders as they continued into the village.
“Helgen,” the golden-haired man said with memory in his voice. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here.” The soldier towing them stopped the wagon and stepped off of his horse. Several other armed men, and one woman, were present. Far to his left, the Nord could see an executioner. His panic rose even higher. He didn't have to ask what they were here for.
“Why have we stopped?” asked the horse thief.
“Why do you think?” came the golden-haired man's reply. “End of the line.”
The other three prisoners were called forth, one at a time. The Nord did not pay enough attention to remember their names. He certainly did notice though, when the horse thief tried to flee, after exclaiming that this was a mistake, and he was not a rebel. The attempt at freedom was almost immediately quelled by skilled archers. As the Nord stared at the now lifeless body of his fellow prisoner, one of the guards, also a Nord, spoke.
“You,” he said. “Step forward. Who are you?” The Nord prisoner was in such a fret that he had almost forgotten he had a name. After a moment of gathering his senses, he spoke.
“Crujir.”
It was a strange name for a Nord, causing the guard to raise an eyebrow. He recognized Crujir's Nordic features, but could not for the life of him understand why Crujir's name didn't fit right. Little did the guard know that Crujir was not raised in Skyrim, nor was he raised by his natural parents. His adoptive parents had given him the name he bore, and to this day, he could not figure out why the “j” in his name was to be pronounced as an “h.” His friends had always made fun of it when they were drunk. They would pronounce his name over and over, elaborating both syllables, and the “j.”
“Krooooooo-heeeeeeer!” they would say in a drunken fit of laughter. “Your parents couldn't even spell, could they?” Of course they would not say it with the proper accent that his parents insisted be used with his name. A light tap of the tongue on the letter “r” was required, along with a strong emphasis on the sound of the “j.” He had gotten used to their shenanigans over the years, accepting his name for what it is. When he was honest with himself, he liked his name, but preferred that people call him Cru, for simplicity.
The guard, after his curiosity had run its course, consulted the female officer to his right, obviously his superior.
“His name's not on the list. What should we do?”
“Forget the list,” she said dismissively. “He goes to the block.”
“I'm sorry kinsman,” was all Cru heard before all outside noise was blocked out, and the only sound he could hear was his heart slamming against his chest. Is this the gods' punishment for his past, that he sought so strongly to atone for? He silently begged for a last chance to redeem himself.
He opened his mouth to speak against this injustice, but was struck hard in the back by the fist of another guard, winding him. He was pushed toward the execution block. He could only wonder why he was captured, and what crimes he could possibly be being held for. All of his crimes had been committed in other, far away parts of Tamriel. In fact, this was the first time he had been to Skyrim since he was a baby. As he approached the block, he noticed that special attention was being paid to the man with the cloth over his mouth.
“... using a power like The Voice to murder our king and usurp his throne...” was all he heard. The Voice? Once again, curiosity quickly faded, but this time for a different reason. A strange noise was heard echoing from far away. As several voices muttered amongst themselves, trying to decide what the noise was, the solider addressing the gagged man responded to another's inquiry.
“It's nothing, carry on.” He dismissed it immediately.
Last rites were being read to the prisoners. One prisoner grumbled impatiently, insulted the reader and urged him to hurry up. He stepped toward the block. He was then kicked over to have his head lay on the block. He spoke hatefully toward every armed man in the vicinity.
“My ancestors are smiling upon me right now. Can you say the same?” His head was then cut cleanly off by the large, blood-stained axe held in the hands of the executioner. Blood spurt outward, and a crowd member cursed the men performing the execution.
The strange noise now in the back of his mind, all hope dissipated from Cru as he was pushed toward the block, and kicked over. His head lay on the block sideways, facing the masked man with the axe. He raised it. The soon dead Nord closed his eyes and prepared for death.
Then the noise again.
Cru's eyes quickly shot open, and he caught a glimpse of what looked like a dragon in the distant sky, over the tower behind the executioner.
“What in Oblivion is that?” someone exclaimed. The creature landed on the tower, causing a small quake to ripple through the village. The executioner stumbled and fell.
“Dragon!” another bystander shrieked.
The dragon bellowed a mighty roar, and suddenly the sky was filled with lightning and dark clouds. Cru's vision was blurry, and he was disoriented from the sudden turn of events. He could hear several panicked shouts as swords were being drawn. He heard the screaming of terrified citizens as they were running for their lives. He looked up just in time to see the dragon lift off and fly away.
Cru sat up in his makeshift bedding and gasped for air. Looking around, he remembered where he was. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the warm sunshine blanketing the area around him. The tree above him swayed in the wind. He knew he would dream about the dragon that night. It had only been a day. He figured he'd dream about it every night for the rest of his life. He wanted to convince himself that the whole experience was a dream, and that dragons were still dead, as they had been for hundreds of years. But he knew better. He saw the dragon himself. He was only a few feet away when he saw another person get crushed by rubble as the dragon burned him alive.
He shook his head, stood up and stretched. He ate some of the berries he had picked the night before, and looked around. Skyrim was beautiful. The mountains in the distance, shrouded in mist, begged to be traversed, appearing to promise many hidden mysteries and treasures. The dense forest ahead housed several animals, some of which were wandering outside the treeline. Deer walked lazily in small groups, paying no attention to the Nord staring at them in the distance. Enough standing around. He gathered the sword, hide shield and longbow he procured from the village the night before, got back onto the road and walked.
Feeling some relief, Cru took a big breath of his homeland's air and smiled. He saw a tall rock on a a ridge, and he was immediately overcome by his sense of adventure. He climbed to the top, and looked around.
“Wow,” he said to himself. “Where do I begin?” He had returned home to escape his past, but he was still an adventurer, through and through. He saw a cave in the face of a cliff in the distance, and his heart jumped enthusiastically. He had heard the stories of the hundreds of abandoned caves, and some not abandoned, that housed many treasures that few dared to pursue. He knew that many dangers would lay in those caves, and many outside. He had heard tales of adventurers wandering for days, taking in the beauty of the land, all while finding new creatures to kill every day, and taking with them many treasures that would earn them a good living. He set off for the cave.
Entering the cave, he immediately noticed the gloom. Not just the lack of light, but the scent of dark magic. His adoptive parents were very adept magicians, and warned him all his life about dark magic. His upper lip curled in disgust as he quietly drew his sword. Looking down a long, slanted path, he saw two men in dark robes standing around a fire, chanting ghastly chants. Cru immediately recognized the chants.
Necromancers.
They hadn't noticed him. He quietly put his sword back in his sheath, and grasped his bow from behind his back. He nocked an arrow, and aimed it silently at the closest necromancer. Holding his breath as he always does before a silent kill, he released.
The arrow flew, and before either of the dark magicians knew what was happening, one lay dead, having fallen into the fire with an arrow protruding from his back. The other screamed angrily, and immediately turned his attention up the path from where Cru had fired. Cru immediately drew another arrow and fired, striking his target in the chest. This only angered him, and Cru's eyes widened in surprised as the necromancer continued charging. Suddenly, his right hand was glowing.
Cru dropped his bow, and quickly retrieved his sword again, and his shield as well. The necromancer yelled incoherently, and attempted to fire a blue ball of energy at his assailant. Cru dodged, and immediately lunged forward, running the necromancer through with his sword. With a gasp, the impaled man fell as the sword was removed from his gut. He wasn't angry anymore.
Cru spit on the bodies of the men he killed, and searched them both for valuables. A small amount of gold was found, and two iron daggers. He took these, and proceeded to walk through an open wall near the fire. Suddenly, he felt a strong pain in his left arm. He yelled loudly as his arm was cut open by yet another necromancer, this one already wielding his dagger.
“You never should have come here!” yelled the necromancer. He attempted another slash, but Cru deflected and immediately responded with two slashes to the man's chest, and a stab to the gut. Dead.
Another sharp pain had formed in the center of his back, and he spun around to find a large skeleton with a war axe. It had struck him in the back, damaging the hide armor he had obtained from Helgen. Wincing in pain, Cru swung as hard as he could at the skeleton, staggering it. Another swing shattered it's torso. He heard more angry screams from somewhere else in the cave. He was not prepared for this.
Injured, Cru fled the cave as fast as he could with his wounds. He ran some distance, and turned around. He was not being followed. Winded and bleeding, he put his sword away and held his hand up, concentrating. It began to glow a soft orange. Light swept over his body, and his wounds slowly closed. After a short time, he was healed, but his hide armor remained stained and damaged.
“Bastards,” he muttered. If I would have had better than a dull iron sword and hide armor, they wouldn't have stood a chance. I'll be back.
Three others were in the wagon with him, silently staring at nothing. The Nord opened his eyes, and slowly rose to a blur of images and a very prominent headache. His vision slowly became clearer, and the sounds around him were becoming recognizable. He heard the sound of a horse's hooves, trotting on the hard ground, and the sound of the wood of the wagon creaking. He could feel the cold wind brushing over his body, causing him to shiver. After sitting up, he shook himself awake to find his hands bound. Now alert, panic shot through his body as he struggled in vain to loosen his bonds. The man across from him turned his attention to the Nord. He had long, wavy golden hair and dirt on his face. His hands were bound as well.
“You,” said the golden haired man. “You're finally awake. You were caught trying to cross the border, weren't you?” The man continued to speak, but the Nord's attention was lost quickly. He surveilled his environment, noticing that the other two in the wagon were also prisoners. His gaze stopped only for a moment on the man to his right, who had a cloth wrapped tightly around his mouth. His curiosity faded only moments later as hopelessness filled him. His legs ached. His head throbbed. His hands were bound, and had been for hours, causing a painful rash to form on his wrists. He was cold, starving, and frightened. Knowing full well that he would meet an almost certain death if he tried to flee, he gritted his teeth as he looked at the back of the armed man riding the horse. He noticed another cart up ahead, also being towed by an armed man on a horse. That cart was full of prisoners as well.
“Shut up back there,” said the solider as the prisoners in the cart with the Nord continued chatting. They promptly ignored him. The golden haired man asked the prisoner next to him what he was doing in Skyrim, and addressed him as “horse thief.” The horse thief showed obvious contempt for both the golden-haired man and the gagged man. He cursed them and blamed them for the current chaos in Skyrim, chaos that the Nord was unaware of.
“You and me, we shouldn't be here,” said the horse thief to the Nord. “It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” The Nord hadn't heard that title, Stormcloaks, before. He paid no heed. His only concern when crossing the border to Skyrim was to return to his homeland and escape his past, which bore several scars on his soul, and one below his left eye. The physical scar was vertical, traveling down his cheek about halfway to his lipline, and reminded him of his past every time he blinked. He would never forget.
The group approached a village full of people watching the wagons enter. A child curiously asked his father what the men entering the village were doing. He was instructed to go inside. Several other villagers chattered amongst themselves. The soldiers nonchalantly ignored all of the bystanders as they continued into the village.
“Helgen,” the golden-haired man said with memory in his voice. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here.” The soldier towing them stopped the wagon and stepped off of his horse. Several other armed men, and one woman, were present. Far to his left, the Nord could see an executioner. His panic rose even higher. He didn't have to ask what they were here for.
“Why have we stopped?” asked the horse thief.
“Why do you think?” came the golden-haired man's reply. “End of the line.”
The other three prisoners were called forth, one at a time. The Nord did not pay enough attention to remember their names. He certainly did notice though, when the horse thief tried to flee, after exclaiming that this was a mistake, and he was not a rebel. The attempt at freedom was almost immediately quelled by skilled archers. As the Nord stared at the now lifeless body of his fellow prisoner, one of the guards, also a Nord, spoke.
“You,” he said. “Step forward. Who are you?” The Nord prisoner was in such a fret that he had almost forgotten he had a name. After a moment of gathering his senses, he spoke.
“Crujir.”
It was a strange name for a Nord, causing the guard to raise an eyebrow. He recognized Crujir's Nordic features, but could not for the life of him understand why Crujir's name didn't fit right. Little did the guard know that Crujir was not raised in Skyrim, nor was he raised by his natural parents. His adoptive parents had given him the name he bore, and to this day, he could not figure out why the “j” in his name was to be pronounced as an “h.” His friends had always made fun of it when they were drunk. They would pronounce his name over and over, elaborating both syllables, and the “j.”
“Krooooooo-heeeeeeer!” they would say in a drunken fit of laughter. “Your parents couldn't even spell, could they?” Of course they would not say it with the proper accent that his parents insisted be used with his name. A light tap of the tongue on the letter “r” was required, along with a strong emphasis on the sound of the “j.” He had gotten used to their shenanigans over the years, accepting his name for what it is. When he was honest with himself, he liked his name, but preferred that people call him Cru, for simplicity.
The guard, after his curiosity had run its course, consulted the female officer to his right, obviously his superior.
“His name's not on the list. What should we do?”
“Forget the list,” she said dismissively. “He goes to the block.”
“I'm sorry kinsman,” was all Cru heard before all outside noise was blocked out, and the only sound he could hear was his heart slamming against his chest. Is this the gods' punishment for his past, that he sought so strongly to atone for? He silently begged for a last chance to redeem himself.
He opened his mouth to speak against this injustice, but was struck hard in the back by the fist of another guard, winding him. He was pushed toward the execution block. He could only wonder why he was captured, and what crimes he could possibly be being held for. All of his crimes had been committed in other, far away parts of Tamriel. In fact, this was the first time he had been to Skyrim since he was a baby. As he approached the block, he noticed that special attention was being paid to the man with the cloth over his mouth.
“... using a power like The Voice to murder our king and usurp his throne...” was all he heard. The Voice? Once again, curiosity quickly faded, but this time for a different reason. A strange noise was heard echoing from far away. As several voices muttered amongst themselves, trying to decide what the noise was, the solider addressing the gagged man responded to another's inquiry.
“It's nothing, carry on.” He dismissed it immediately.
Last rites were being read to the prisoners. One prisoner grumbled impatiently, insulted the reader and urged him to hurry up. He stepped toward the block. He was then kicked over to have his head lay on the block. He spoke hatefully toward every armed man in the vicinity.
“My ancestors are smiling upon me right now. Can you say the same?” His head was then cut cleanly off by the large, blood-stained axe held in the hands of the executioner. Blood spurt outward, and a crowd member cursed the men performing the execution.
The strange noise now in the back of his mind, all hope dissipated from Cru as he was pushed toward the block, and kicked over. His head lay on the block sideways, facing the masked man with the axe. He raised it. The soon dead Nord closed his eyes and prepared for death.
Then the noise again.
Cru's eyes quickly shot open, and he caught a glimpse of what looked like a dragon in the distant sky, over the tower behind the executioner.
“What in Oblivion is that?” someone exclaimed. The creature landed on the tower, causing a small quake to ripple through the village. The executioner stumbled and fell.
“Dragon!” another bystander shrieked.
The dragon bellowed a mighty roar, and suddenly the sky was filled with lightning and dark clouds. Cru's vision was blurry, and he was disoriented from the sudden turn of events. He could hear several panicked shouts as swords were being drawn. He heard the screaming of terrified citizens as they were running for their lives. He looked up just in time to see the dragon lift off and fly away.
Cru sat up in his makeshift bedding and gasped for air. Looking around, he remembered where he was. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the warm sunshine blanketing the area around him. The tree above him swayed in the wind. He knew he would dream about the dragon that night. It had only been a day. He figured he'd dream about it every night for the rest of his life. He wanted to convince himself that the whole experience was a dream, and that dragons were still dead, as they had been for hundreds of years. But he knew better. He saw the dragon himself. He was only a few feet away when he saw another person get crushed by rubble as the dragon burned him alive.
He shook his head, stood up and stretched. He ate some of the berries he had picked the night before, and looked around. Skyrim was beautiful. The mountains in the distance, shrouded in mist, begged to be traversed, appearing to promise many hidden mysteries and treasures. The dense forest ahead housed several animals, some of which were wandering outside the treeline. Deer walked lazily in small groups, paying no attention to the Nord staring at them in the distance. Enough standing around. He gathered the sword, hide shield and longbow he procured from the village the night before, got back onto the road and walked.
Feeling some relief, Cru took a big breath of his homeland's air and smiled. He saw a tall rock on a a ridge, and he was immediately overcome by his sense of adventure. He climbed to the top, and looked around.
“Wow,” he said to himself. “Where do I begin?” He had returned home to escape his past, but he was still an adventurer, through and through. He saw a cave in the face of a cliff in the distance, and his heart jumped enthusiastically. He had heard the stories of the hundreds of abandoned caves, and some not abandoned, that housed many treasures that few dared to pursue. He knew that many dangers would lay in those caves, and many outside. He had heard tales of adventurers wandering for days, taking in the beauty of the land, all while finding new creatures to kill every day, and taking with them many treasures that would earn them a good living. He set off for the cave.
Entering the cave, he immediately noticed the gloom. Not just the lack of light, but the scent of dark magic. His adoptive parents were very adept magicians, and warned him all his life about dark magic. His upper lip curled in disgust as he quietly drew his sword. Looking down a long, slanted path, he saw two men in dark robes standing around a fire, chanting ghastly chants. Cru immediately recognized the chants.
Necromancers.
They hadn't noticed him. He quietly put his sword back in his sheath, and grasped his bow from behind his back. He nocked an arrow, and aimed it silently at the closest necromancer. Holding his breath as he always does before a silent kill, he released.
The arrow flew, and before either of the dark magicians knew what was happening, one lay dead, having fallen into the fire with an arrow protruding from his back. The other screamed angrily, and immediately turned his attention up the path from where Cru had fired. Cru immediately drew another arrow and fired, striking his target in the chest. This only angered him, and Cru's eyes widened in surprised as the necromancer continued charging. Suddenly, his right hand was glowing.
Cru dropped his bow, and quickly retrieved his sword again, and his shield as well. The necromancer yelled incoherently, and attempted to fire a blue ball of energy at his assailant. Cru dodged, and immediately lunged forward, running the necromancer through with his sword. With a gasp, the impaled man fell as the sword was removed from his gut. He wasn't angry anymore.
Cru spit on the bodies of the men he killed, and searched them both for valuables. A small amount of gold was found, and two iron daggers. He took these, and proceeded to walk through an open wall near the fire. Suddenly, he felt a strong pain in his left arm. He yelled loudly as his arm was cut open by yet another necromancer, this one already wielding his dagger.
“You never should have come here!” yelled the necromancer. He attempted another slash, but Cru deflected and immediately responded with two slashes to the man's chest, and a stab to the gut. Dead.
Another sharp pain had formed in the center of his back, and he spun around to find a large skeleton with a war axe. It had struck him in the back, damaging the hide armor he had obtained from Helgen. Wincing in pain, Cru swung as hard as he could at the skeleton, staggering it. Another swing shattered it's torso. He heard more angry screams from somewhere else in the cave. He was not prepared for this.
Injured, Cru fled the cave as fast as he could with his wounds. He ran some distance, and turned around. He was not being followed. Winded and bleeding, he put his sword away and held his hand up, concentrating. It began to glow a soft orange. Light swept over his body, and his wounds slowly closed. After a short time, he was healed, but his hide armor remained stained and damaged.
“Bastards,” he muttered. If I would have had better than a dull iron sword and hide armor, they wouldn't have stood a chance. I'll be back.
