Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim or any characters associated with Bethesda's Elder Scrolls series. All original content is my own.

He is going on his fourth consecutive hour of standing straight, back desperate to touch the cool stone of the wall behind him, when he hears her scream. His knees are stiff. They have been locked into the same position since noon. His blue eyes are dry and beginning to redden from staring out into the distance for so long. The soot from the smelter over at Left Hand Mine has somehow made its way over to his position. It stings his eyes, clogs his nostrils. A thin layer of black specks has dusted the exposed skin of his hands and neck. Breylin is very close to murdering his watch partner when her piercing shrieks fill the air around him.

It is not that he holds any particular animosity for Tiero, the Nord man sharing his post that day. On most days, actually, he enjoys his company. But it is the end of his long schedule of watches and a two-day break is ahead of him. He is wearied and hungry. His meager lunch of half a wheel of goat cheese and lukewarm Markarth Mead had his stomach grumbling not an hour after his break. His overseer would have his coin ready to plunk down into his tired hands at the end of his watch. He is counting down the seconds, watching each cloud as it floats along in the darkening sky.

Tiero is constantly chatty. He is a man who loves to hear himself speak and rarely allows silence to stretch on for too long before making some sort of remark. The man can talk about any and everything. Breylin once witnessed him have a full conversation with Vigilance before the dog had scampered off, presumably to get away from Tiero's incessant onslaught of vocalizing. If only Breylin was not duty-bound and could run off like Vigilance. Even Banning's slightly glazed over look and flighty eyes would be preferable to Tiero's current tirade.

"I could be anywhere right now. Infiltrating Stormcloak camps, joining the Companions in Whiterun, destroying bandit strongholds. I could even be Queen Elisif's personal guard by now," he is saying offhandedly out into the waning daylight.

Breylin rolls his eyes at Tiero's suggestion that he could ever hope to be the personal guard to the High Queen of Skyrim.

"But noooo," he drags out, "what do I get?" Breylin mouths along with him, "Guard duty."

Breylin has heard this story at least seven times now. Either here on watch or in the Silver-Blood Inn when he finds himself sharing a section of Kleppr's bar with him.

Tiero continues, "All because I took an arr-"

He is cut off. A loud, wailing cry sounds from not too far away. Breylin is sure that the person to whom the scream belongs is coming straight towards the large bronze doors of Markarth. Sound bounces off the emblazoned Dwemer metal and reverberates back into the stable area before Markarth. It is easy to miscalculate where a sound is coming from, how far away its owner is, but Breylin has been a Markarth guard for nearly half his life now. He is an expert at reading and interpreting the sounds around him.

Kibell has already shot off his carriage and is running towards the source of the screaming. Breylin and Tiero share a look. Tiero is, for once, silent as he switches his gaze back and forth between his watch partner and the quickly darkening courtyard before him. His eyes are as wide as saucers as they peer out into the distance. He gulps.

"Anything can come out of The Reach," he finally says, having miraculously found his voice.

Breylin does not respond but thinks silently to himself that Tiero would probably not last ten minutes in the guard of High Queen Elisif. Instead, he takes off in a run after Kibell and shouts for Tiero to stay put. Not like the man had made any moves to follow his comrade into the darkening Reach.

He jumps down the stone stairs in three, wide leaps. His feet hit the well-worn grass with a thud as he tears off towards Kibell, ignoring the stone path that winds up from Salvius' Farm. Instead, he vaults over the low wall and follows the screams. They have not stopped since the first one sounded mere moments ago.

Kibell is only a few short paces away now. His iron dagger remains sheathed at his side and his hands are up – not in surrender, but in the way that Breylin has seen Cedran try to ease his horses when they are spooked by a too closely wandering fox or, on the very rare occasion, a wolf. Breylin does not think that a wolf is to blame for what he sees in front of him.

She is sobbing at this point, in hysterics. Her screams have died down to a cross between choking sobs and gasps that are interrupted by huge gulps of air. Tears stain her face, and the Reach wind combined with the sheer physical exertion she must have released has colored her cheeks with a rosy tint that matches the falling sun behind her.

The woman clutches someone to her chest, cradles her in her arms, and Breylin takes a moment to allow himself to be surprised that the tiny woman before him had the strength to carry another woman in full armor all the way from wherever she had come (it was surely not Salvius' Farm or Kolskeggr Mine, as he would have recognized her). She wears robes mottled with dirt and grime, especially along the bottom hem, and an unmistakable deep crimson is speckled on her collar and up her neck. Her hands are small, the knuckles a bony white as they clutch hard around the woman she presses against her own chest. They too, along with her fingers, are slick with red.

"Ma'am," Breylin tries to appear calm and not act like he just vaulted down several steps and over no less than three walls to get there, "please allow me to carry-"

Her eyes are the color of emeralds when they stare back at him. They are piercing and menacing despite their brightness, and such distrust swirls inside them that he immediately takes a step back. Like a frightened animal, this woman appears to feel cornered, and he cannot let her run away. He wonders very briefly if she will hiss at him. Her heels have dug into the ground and she could easily pivot and run back the way she came. It would be a disadvantage for her to do so, but he has seen smaller, less intelligent animals do far less intuitive things. He is unsure if she has the strength to make it even five more steps, but he is even more sure that he cannot let her go now.

Not when he sees that the body she is holding is no longer breathing.

Vorstag has just sat down by the hearth in Silver-Blood Inn when the entirety of the establishment rushes outside. Frabbi and Kleppr, for once not throwing snide comments at each other, abandon their posts and hastily exit the inn they've run for years now. The broom which the innkeeper had been holding stays upright for a few moments, spins once, twice, then clatters to the ground. The sound bounces around the stone walls of the now empty common area.

Vorstag has never seen the inn clear out like this, and though he is tired from his most recent employment, his curiosity picks his body off the chair he'd eased his weary bones into. He sets his untouched mug of mead down on a nearby table, fully aware that if Cosnach beats him back into the inn, the chances of his mead still being there upon his return are slim to none.

He has just returned from a long journey to and from the College of Winterhold not two hours past. Calcelmo had needed to consult a rare book held only by Urag gro-Shub in the College's Arcanaeum. The Orc was known to not allow books to leave the premises, and as Calcelmo could not stand to be away from his research any longer than a night's rest (even less if he felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough of some sort), he had ordered his nephew Aicantar to travel to Winterhold in order to copy down any and everything inside. The Altmer conjurer's nephew had found Vorstag in his usual place: sitting by the fire of Silver-Blood Inn, feet as close to the flames as he could manage without burning his boots, nursing a mug of mead and waiting for his next opportunity for employment. A bulging coin purse dangling in front of his face was all the persuasion he'd needed to rush off to the frigid village that had almost been swallowed by the sea.

He had not always wanted to be muscle for hire. His true interests lie somewhere else entirely, far from the life of beating bandits to pulps and protecting employers who could care less about his wellbeing so long as he protected theirs. It was a strange and lonely life at times, fighting to defend someone who would not so readily come to his own aid (should he ever find himself in need of helpless maidens, scared Altmerian conjurers, or seedy tradesmen), but he had to make coin somehow. And The Reach was always offering opportunities that called for a protector, however dangerous and bloody those may be.

The journey had lasted over two weeks, and Vorstag is certain that it would take nearly as long for the chill of Winterhold to leave his veins. The cold had all but frozen his blood and turned his bones to stone. How anyone could stand to live so far North in Skyrim is beyond him. Markarth, although it is nestled into the side of the snow-capped Druadach Mountains, at least sees some warmth when the seasons change. The heat during Sun's Height is cocooned within the Dwemer walls and stays trapped until the approaching Hearthfire begins to temper it with its cooler breeze. Vorstag prides himself on being able to survive anywhere, but if he is given a choice, he knows he would never willingly choose to go somewhere that sees perpetual winter.

The weather outside in Markarth is currently balmy. The end of Second Seed is upon them and the approaching heat of Midyear looms not far off in the distance. Hogni Red-Arm's meat stall in the market has only just begun to attract flies and the putrid smell of rot has yet to permeate the small marketplace. The butcher is currently among the throng of citizens crowded around whatever scene had drawn out all of the inn's patrons. Vorstag takes a few tentative steps forward, just enough to leave the cobbled path up to Silver-Blood, but not enough to be too terribly far from his half-forgotten mead in case the spectacle turns out to be not so intriguing after all.

He recognizes Breylin caught up in the bodies of people and spots the guard whose name he vaguely remembers beginning with T. Thurio? Tharnor? Something like that, maybe. The guard he can't quite place is standing awkwardly by the looming twin gates of the city, clearly unsure on whether to help Breylin or to go back outside and keep watch. With no one guarding Markarth, even for a few brief moments, there is no telling who or what may seize the opportunity to do something unsavory.

"Please, everyone, step back!" Breylin thrusts an arm out and attempts to spread the crowd out as if walking through a field of tall grass and parting the high, unruly stalks.

Vorstag rolls his eyes and sighs. Clearly his assistance is needed. He barely has one foot lifted to begin walking when a Breton woman breaks free from the mass.

He tries to recall the last time he has seen someone – a woman no less – covered in so much blood. It is clotted around the collar of her robes. Deep stains cling to the fabric hanging around her boot covered feet. Specks are dotted across the worn leather that encases her toes. There is a splatter running up the left side of her wind beaten and sun-kissed face. Her hair is the color of warm honey, hanging down her back in a horse's tail secured by a faded leather strip tied at the nape of her neck. Strands have broken free from their binding and stick to the sides of her face. They are crusted with blood, clumped together in deep red.

The woman locks eyes with Vorstag and he stops walking, stands with his back straight, stares right at her. Her eyes are the color of the evergreens he has seen deep in Skyrim during his travels. The kind that are untouched by man and seen by very few, for that matter. Her eyes are wide, terrified emeralds that stare back at him. These eyes are completely lost, frantic, the size of saucers. For a moment he is completely thrown by them, by what he sees when he looks at them, at her.

She clutches a woman to her chest, cradles her within her bloodstained arms. Suddenly, her knees buckle, her legs give out. She collapses hard onto the ground, and Vorstag cannot imagine her knees not developing large bruises on their caps. Instinctively, his legs propel him towards her. He notices Breylin crouching down next to her as well. The warrior for hire sinks to one knee gently, props his arm up on his thigh, and inspects the unconscious woman resting half on the ground and half still in the other woman's arms.

A torrent of words spills out of the Breton. "They would not stop. They would not stop to help and I could not help. I could not…I couldn't help. They would not stop. Why would they not stop? I could not…" her breathing is ragged, and she draws in shuddering breaths, "I couldn't help?"

Her blubbering ends in a question that cracks her voice. It is a sweet voice, small yet smooth. But it is riddled with fear, horror, a total and utter swell of emotion that rolls off her every word in an overwhelming wave.

"How did you get her here? Are you wounded?" Breylin is asking her, probably in vain, as Vorstag reaches out a hand to lift the unconscious woman's cracked breastplate slightly. The armor is cleaved in two allowing him to ease open the half closest to the Breton woman. A startlingly deep wound stares back at him. He has seen wounds like these before. He knows well what these wounds mean.

"Carried." She begins speaking again. "Carried her all the way from…from…I carried her here. I…I…not wounded, no, no, not wounded. I…" Her face breaks into a grimace and fat, wet teardrops well in the corners of her bright eyes. "I carried her here."

Vorstag and Breylin look at each other, and the guard gives him a tight-lipped look. It is full of sympathy for the woman in front of them. It is full of a silent plea that Vorstag will tell him the unconscious woman is fine. Vorstag can feel a tightening in his chest. He knows he is about to say what both Breylin and the Breton do not want to hear.

"What is your name?" Breylin's voice is as calm as he can manage.

She is looking down at the other woman and does not answer his question. Instead, with her eyes still drawn downwards, she pleads, "Can you help her? Please can you help her?"

"Traveler," Vorstag addresses her. His voice is like gravel and he has to clear his throat before he speaks any further. He does not often engage others in conversation, does not care to say anything other than what is necessary. The vocal cords nestled in his throat are tight. He does not like being the center of so much attention – the mob of people crowded around them, the setting sun throwing the small market square into colors that remind him of a blazing fire. But, he reasons with himself, he must speak to her.

"Traveler," he says again. When she turns her wide emerald eyes towards him he can almost feel his heart twist painfully in his chest. The tightening is steadily growing worse. How lost those eyes already are now, he thinks. How completely stranded they are about to become.

"Your companion cannot be helped."

The Breton woman's eyes shine with a glossy layer of tears and disbelief. Her eyebrows furrow and her chapped, pink lips open only to close again.

She breathes out a near soundless "what?" and Vorstag finds it in him to speak again, though it feels as if a rock has lodged itself deep within his throat.

"Your companion cannot be helped," he opens her breastplate to show the Breton a motionless, bloodied chest.

"She is dead."

A/N: I'm very excited to write this story.

I have some stories on the back burner currently, but I am confident inspiration will hit me for those characters again one day. For now, I am incredibly stoked to start this journey with Vorstag, who I think has too few stories about him on this site, and my new leading lady. More will be revealed about her in the coming chapters, but for now I will say I wanted to play with a character like her for a long time. She will be a new adventure for me.

Also, I've looked at this chapter about fifty times now so if you see any errors, please PM me and I'll fix them right away. This is my first time writing in present tense and I am loving the challenge and chance of pace. It's fun to spice up my writing every once in a while.

I've played Skyrim so many times and it is very dear to my heart, along with its characters. Is it silly to say it and they have helped me through some tough times? Maybe. Oh well. I love these fools.

Let me know your thoughts!

Stay tuned xx.