21st of Sun's Dusk, Early Morning, Bandit camp in the forests of the Pale, West of Dawnstar
The fire crackled and the man rubbed his chapped hands together before tucking them between his rear and the tree stump that served as a makeshift seat. He drew his hood lower over his eyes and smoothed the rumpled bear fur over his ears. The heart of winter was approaching and he could feel it in the deep recesses of his ears and the blasts of cold wind that penetrated the surrounding trees. He looked up and watched as the sky began to brighten, signaling the return of the sun. Stars began to fade and the blackness of night gave way to pale tints of orange.
Grumbling, the man stood. He drew his raggedy fur armor around him and warmed his hands at the small fire one last time. He adjusted the iron greatsword that was sheathed on his back and began to patrol the perimeter of the small camp, swinging his head this way and that, scanning the trees for any movement.
They were only here temporarily and were ready depart for warmer regions. The chief had said they were to set off at day break today. They had gotten what they came for. The gold rested in the chief's personal chest, the weapons and armor divvied up… The man glanced at his torn gloves and snorted. Divvied up rather unfairly to be precise. The skooma resided in everyone's tents, and the Khajiit were no longer recognizable after being fed to the dogs. Alive. In spite of showing the enthusiasm for the grisly spectacle as the chief expected from his bandits, he had shuddered and suppressed the urge to release the contents of his stomach. Killing by the sword was one thing. Watching a starved dog tear into someone's midsection and pull out a string of their juiciest intestines was another.
The man shook his head at the thought and spat into the stained snow that blanketed the ground. He swung towards the right, looping around a corner of the square shaped perimeter that the group's tents had formed. He continued his patrol absentmindedly, cursing the cold under his breath. He ambled about impatiently, feeling every breath of cool air that the Pale blew upon him. He clenched his hands into fists periodically, feeling himself grow angrier and angrier as the sun drew higher. He passed by another guard and grunted in recognition.
Damn the Nords, he thought, cursing their resistance to the cold.
Perhaps that was the reason the chief had not yet signaled their departure. Perhaps he was lying in his tent, warmer than a cave bear in its den, oblivious to temperature outside. Perhaps he was lying with one of the slaves they had acquired, sheathing his cock into her warm cunt. The man spat into the snow again and kicked at it in frustration. While the Nords of the group enjoyed themselves in this winter hell, the others, like him, suffered.
Then a sudden gust of wind blew and he growled, tucking his chin to his chest and presenting the mass of his hooded head towards the wind in an attempt to break the chilling gusts. He rounded another corner and raised his head to scan the pocked cliff face that shielded the southern side of the camp. Another gust of wind blew a whistling sound that seemed to louden as it approached. He dropped his head and braced for another bout of cold. He chewed on his lip, prepared for the now familiar and much hated scalp prickling, skin cracking stab of wind. Instead, he felt a brief, sharp pain on the right side of his forehead and then he felt as if he was falling.
The chief's eyes flew open and he lay on his back, staring at the peak of the sabre cat pelt tent. As he became more aware of his surroundings, what had seemed like dull, incoherent noise sharpened into shouts. He leapt to his feet and immediately began to tip forwards. He reached out to brace himself against a chest before dropping to all fours. This couldn't have been a result of the drinking and the skooma from the previous night. He had partaken in the celebration in moderation to maintain some form of clarity.
He remained in that position for what felt like eternity. What had begun as a wave of nausea transformed into dull aching that, in turn, became a throbbing burning sensation with a periodic jolt of sudden pain. The bandit chief clenched at his belly, pressing his forehead to the ground as he rocked back and forth. Groaning, he pressed his hands to his stomach, kneading the flesh as if he could squeeze out a parasite. He coughed a glob of thick, hot blood splattered on the fur rug. He stared as blood began to freely drip from between his lips. The fur rug absorbed the crimson droplets and tendrils of flat crimson began to spread on the rug. The chief's vision began to swim, the nausea returned again and he fell onto his side. Blood began to trickle from his mouth now, and as the flap of his tent flew open, looked up in desperation, prepared to reward the man who fetched him the apothecary.
Instead of the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man that was typical of those in his band, a lithe, womanly figure was outlined by the light that flooded into his tent. The figure was joined by another and the flap was shut.
Before him stood two women, both dressed in unfamiliar skin tight armor. The taller one was clad in pure white armor with silver trimming and dark crimson slashes that ran from her neck to the top of her breasts. The armor in question seemed to be comprised of overlapping scaled plates that ran down her torso. Similar plating covered her forearms and legs. Her face was obscured by a cowl that covered the bottom half of her face, leaving her ice blue eyes uncovered. Her eyes were shadowed by a low hanging hooded crimson hood that was attached to the matching crimson cape that blew with the slight breeze. In contrast to her armor was a pair of blue-black swords that rested in their scabbards at her hips. Strung across her shoulder was a longbow of matching color with intricate designs etched into its arms. He met her eyes and saw determination burning within her icy blues. In spite her intimidating appearance, the other one was much more striking. And clearly more dangerous.
She was almost a head shorter than her companion and but her attire seemed to make her presence fill the tent. She wore the same white and silver armor as her companion. The similarities ended there. Instead of crimson, she was adorned with jet black markings on her shoulders. She too wore a cowl that hid most of her features but also wore a jet black hooded veil. Deep sapphire eyes peered out with cold fire, almost as if she had a personal vendetta against the bandit chief. Her most surprising and daunting feature was the flowing raven feather cloak that was draped across one shoulder and clasped at her throat by a polished onyx gem. The garment was topped off by two wing-like attachments that jutted from between the woman's shoulders, elegantly swept backwards and extended up simultaneously.
He could tell she was leader by the air of command she possessed. Her eyes were much more intense than any he had seen before. They seemed to penetrate his soul and engorge him while lighting him afire. She stepped forwards, and nudged him onto his back with a gaiter. She knelt beside him, looking into his eyes while seeming to look through him as well. He met her gaze and a sense of peace and finality washed over him. He was so enraptured by her eyes the dagger that she drew seemed to materialize from thin air.
She leant over him and rested the dagger by his throat. Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered, "You're actions have brought this upon you. The Winterguard called for your death, Winterwatch answered, and the Raven of the North has escorted you to Sovngarde."
The pain in his stomach ended as darkness consumed him. Warmth spread as he opened his arms to embrace the afterlife.