The air seemed close and the room felt cold as Lokran Prodinix slowly regained consciousness. It was some feat for a Snow Elf to feel the cold and Lokran found he was surprised as his vision swam and he tried ever so hard to find his bearings. With an unsteady hand Lokran braced himself against the wall and tried to stand, but his legs failed him and he tasted raw earth on his lips. He tried to curse but found his voice cracked. It felt like someone had filled his throat with the deserts of Elswyr and he coughed, trying desperately to bring some moisture back to his mouth.

"Hello" he called out, but his voice was still weak and raspy and it sounded more like an agitated mud-crab than a Snow Elf warrior. He tried once more, "Hello" this time reaching a decibel that even a very small cow could hear, but there was still no reply. With great effort Lokran pushed himself to his knees and took in the sights around him. It did not take long as he found himself in a cell, just about large enough for the pallet on which he had been lying and the small area of floor that his body now occupied. The brick, wood and metal around him were unfamiliar, definitely not Falmer work, nor that of the metal loving Dwemer – in fact it seemed primitive almost the kind of thing… he froze mid thought, his surrounding suddenly solidifying into a coherent situation. His natural reflexes and warrior training kicked in and he began to think tactically. When he had been placed into the healing sleep, he had just been removed from the battlefield – the Nords had been beating his people back in a bloody swathe, but they had begun to hold them at the Throat of the World and he had felt sure that, once rested, he would be able to re-join the fight and take whatever fate awaited. Lokran understood the Nords actions, but while he understood he was duty-bound to retake the field, whatever the Snow Prince wanted it was his job to obey. What had happened since though, why was he not in the healing halls of the Chapel, why did he look upon the walls of a human construct and where in the name of Oblivion was he?

A curious mix of anger, anxiety and adrenaline coursing through him gave him the strength he needed to stand. With deliberate movements he regained his feet and tottered unsteadily toward the single door. He tested it gingerly, unsure of who – or what – was on the other side. It was bolted, but Lokran could feel the give in the wood and hinges – this door was old, not suited to holding a prisoner like this. He tested the door again, putting more pressure on the wood with his shoulder – he could feel the give in the wood becoming more and more pronounced and pressed on with a little more vigour. The wood groaned and the hinges creaked as the door splintered and fell from its frame. Lokran coughed as a cloud of dust rose up from the room beyond. Wafting the offending cloud away he looked into the room. It was dark, only a single shaft of sunlight breaking through a missing board in the ceiling. The room was filled with broken furniture, toppled chests and the remains of what appeared to be a bookcase, complete with charred manuscripts rendered illegible by heat and smoke. Lokran's red eyes scanned the room for movement or threat, but found none. He relaxed a little, but his mind kept throwing up more and more questions. What on earth was going on? Where was he? What was this place? Lokran bent down to inspect some of the debris that littered the floor, rusted goblets and broken dishes were scattered around the table, an overturned basket with its weave bitten through lay in one corner, a broken broom casually discarded atop it. Then he spied it, a small scrap of paper lying among the broken crockery and splinters. He reached for it and creased his brow in an effort to see in the low light.

The note was simple, written in a scrawled hand and in the, so called, "common tongue". It read,

"Stored the stiff in the back, going to see if I can hock the armour to a fence I know – watch out for Wallace and his crew, they got…"

The note had a section torn off of it, just there, but Lokran noticed it continued further on.

"…Mine. Got a score lined up in Riverwood, some claw, be back in three days, so stay out of trouble.

Alvin"

It took a moment for Lokran to get his head around the note, but he assumed that the "stiff" the note referred to was himself and that this Alvin was a profiteer of some kind and had assumed Lokran dead and therefore no longer needing his armour. He had never heard of the Riverwood however and assumed that it must be a new settlement nearby. Lokran rubbed his head as the reality of the situation began to dawn on him. He had been taken from the healing chapel while under the effects of the healing sleep and placed into what he now surmised to be an abandoned human dwelling. He had been stripped of his armour and placed in… Lokran took a look at himself for the first time since awakening, His white skin seemed to glow faintly in the weak sunlight and was contrasted rather startlingly by the filthy rags in which he found himself. He raised a hand to his brow and felt at his hair – it was matted and filthy, but still thick and healthy as it should be. He shook his head, how long had he been out of action? He was beginning to think that it was not the few months that the Chapel Healers had expected – indeed he was beginning to expect that it had been a great deal longer.

Slowly he rose from his crouched position and moved a little, testing his mobility. He was a little stiff, but if he had been immobile for as long he thought he had he supposed a little stiffness was getting off lightly. He took a step toward what appeared to be the door to the cabin – only to find it opening and a bewildered looking bandit stepping across the threshold. The man was a brute, big and built with shoulder length blonde hair and a nasty looking scar from bottom of his right eye to the nape of his neck. He was wearing simple fur armour with a small satchel on his shoulder and thin linen sash across his chest. There was a moment of stillness as the two of the locked eyes – each silently weighing the other, the bandit appearing slightly more distressed than Lokran, he guessed that was just because the body he had assumed was dead was now wandering the cabin trying to run through basic calisthenics. The moment broke and the two reacted.

The Bandit, true to form, pulled free a wicked looking broadsword from its sheath at his side and charged at the Snow Elf. Lokran threw himself backward to avoid the first swipe of the blade landing heavily on his backside; he quickly spread his legs as the follow up swing carved a divot in the floorboards before throwing himself backward. If he had been in full physical shape Lokran would have rolled backward and sprung to his feet with some crude weapon taken from the debris. As it was he skidded backward on his torn and dirty pants, snagging them on some debris and taking a light cut to the bicep as he turned to avoid being sliced in two. With the Bandit of balance, Lokran swung a huge white fist into his face, sending the man tumbling into the burned bookcase and sprawling on the ground. Lokran took the reprieve to regain his feet and snatched up the broken leg of a chair as a crude cudgel. The Bandit was spry and recovered quickly from his blow – straightening and smirking at Lokran and his chair leg. With a snarl the broadsword snaked out once more and was neatly taken aside by the chair leg – twice more in quick succession and after the third, Lokran struck out lashing with the blunt chunk of seating and cracking the bandit across the jaw. He quickly reversed his hold on the club and brought it hard against the ribs of the bandit before using his off hand to pound the other side of the Bandit's face. Whatever else this man was in life – a natural born fighter he was not and Lokran's skill quickly overcame the Bandit's ferocity. With the man neutralised Lokran took a moment to breathe. He was not as spry as he had hoped to be – his joints stiff and aching. He patted at the cut on his bicep, the blood was flowing freely and he needed to patch it up. Bending down over his unconscious opponent he tore off a strip of the linen he wore as a sash and made himself a bandage, tying it securely across his cut. That done he turned his attention to the satchel – inside he found a set of clothes, a few lock picks and a purse with around fifty coins inside. Lokran took one of the coins and held it up in the faint light. The flat piece of gold was embossed with the profile of a man with thin words around him. Though the piece made little sense he got the gist of it and the word "Empire" was familiar enough for him to recognise. The Humans had an empire. He knew that the lands to the south had always been somewhat of a haven for them, but he had assumed that the Heartland Elves would have been its architects. It was truly startling.

Lokran sat back against the wall – his head in his hands. When he had been wounded; the fight against Ysgramor and the Companions had been raging – the Elders and those above had proclaimed the humans of Atmora a lesser race and deserving of the wrath of the Falmer, but not all had believed that – Lokran was one such Elf. After the Night of Tears he had been conflicted – there had been many an animated conversation with Illyra, his wife, about his role in the genocide, but he had come to accept it as his duty if not his will – and when the retaliation had come and the armies had begun to clash he gladly accepted this as a natural outcome – a sign from Auri-El that he was displeased, but now this. He glanced once more at the coin, the writing on the side and two symbols in particular. 4E. He knew of the era's – a way of keeping time that was only beginning to be whispered about in the forests of Valenwood. For it to be the fourth era, meant that he had been sleeping for centuries. Lokran slammed his fist into the unconscious Bandit, lashing out as his grief and disbelief washed over him. Everyone he had ever known or cared about was dead – everything he knew was now a flicker in the distant past and he was alone.

Lokran leaned back letting the newly formed tears in his eyes pool on his cheeks. He needed answers, definitive answers, not just the idle speculation he was basing on an abandoned cabin and coinage. Balling his fists, he snatched up the note he had dropped when the Bandit had entered and re-read it. Whomever had taken his armour was heading to this Riverwood and if Riverwood was indeed a settlement as he suspected then that meant there would be people he could ask – books he could consult… he paused in his thought as he felt a tremor pass through his body – originating in his stomach… food he could eat. With new resolve Lokran snatched up the clothes from the bag and changed out of his filthy rags. The fit was a little loose, clearly whomever they had belonged to had been a size or two larger than the emaciated Snow Elf – still they were clean(er). Lokran grabbed the satchel and stuffed coins and the lock picks back into it and then took the sword from the Bandit. If he was going into uncharted territory he would do so armed. He stepped to the door and took a deep breath. Then with a quick prayer to Auri-El and a flash of his wife's face, Lokran Prodinix stepped out into the fresh mountain air of Skyrim.