A traveller, clad in chainmail of moderate weight, with blue and white fabrics draped over it, emerges from the idyllic Cyrodiil treeline as the day neared its end. The traveller was looking for a place to rest, his eyes scanning the open field before him through the slits of a golden face mask. A group of ruins - a calm enough place to rest. The traveller set foot towards them. As he stepped onto the ancient stone, he felt a howling gale pass through the ruins. It felt as if it travelled straight through him. His hand took grasp of his blade, drawing a quarter from its sheathe, the rasp of metal echoing through the deserted halls.
A sound could be heard, speech. Commanding, authoritative, "Disarm yourself, and flee," it demanded of the traveller. The voice had no origin, it did not exist outside the traveller's mind, outside his mask. The traveller tightened the grip on his blade, now fully exposed and ready to be used. A gray figure soon emerged to his front, almost transparent in its existence: a mere specter.
"Flee!" it commanded once more. The traveller chose not to respond, simply to stand and watch.
Such insolence demanded action on the side of the protector, the specter approached. It raised its hand, speaking no words. The cold and silvery steel of the traveller's blade heated, slowly turning shades of red. With a grunt, the traveller discarded his weapon, flinging it towards the assailant. There was no effect, the assailant simply proceeded on course towards its goal.
As the gap of metres closed, the traveller drew his second blade: a blade requiring two hands, carried on his back. The black metal of the sword bore writing, now shimmering blue. He raised it with two hands, watching the specter slow down, and stop. With its hand still raised, the ghostly body tilted its head at the sight of the weapon, and stood there, watching. The traveller lacked the distance to build up a charge, instead he simply stepped forth, raised his blade and brought it down upon the shade. There was no resistance generated by the ghostly form: the large two-handed sword simply passed through. Such a quirk forced him to lose his balance as the metal of the blade came into contact with the cold stone. As he wrestled the sword back under control, he noticed the shade had disappeared.
Calming his breathing, he quickly glanced around him: no one else, nothing else, not even the voice, which so boastfully demanded action of him before. A small pile of ash had remained on the stone slabs, it caught the traveller's eye. Resting the tip of the great sword's blade against the floor, he knelt and shifted through the material with his left hand. He quickly noticed a stone, a soulgem, as he recognized it. Standing up, the sword still resting by his side, he inspected the crystal. A blue shimmer resonated within its core, indicated a presence in the matrix itself: an active soul still bound inside.
"You there!" an elven voice called. This time, the voice demanding action of the traveller had a tangible presence. He quickly pocketed the gem and turned to face a group of elves brandishing the infamous image and appearance of the Thalmor.
Their leader made his presence rather clear, stepping forth and provided yet another order, "Submit your weapons and remove your helm, necromancer!"
Two footsoldiers, their blades drawn and ready, closely flanked the mage issuing commands. Two pairs of archer had kept a wider gap as the confrontation began; their bows were fully strung in preparation, and aimed at the traveller.
"I repeat one more time: submit. To the authority. Of the Thalmor."
The Altmer had figured that a melee confrontation would not end favourably. Instead, he kept the two swordsmen and himself at a distance, with the archers existing as a quick way to resolve any potential attempt on the traveller's behalf to engage in combat.
A gauntleted hand carefully absorbed the distilled magicka of a scroll resting on the traveller's belt. A ball of magicka formed itself in his hand. He crushed the ball decisively, the act requiring more force than one would imagine. A burst of flame and light radiated outwards from him, staggering the assailants. The traveller quickly used this opportunity: sheathed his large blade, and made a break for the treeline, picking up the discarded longsword along the way.
Any arrows let loose with the intent of striking the runner missed their mark, a full recovery from the blinding illusion spell taking longer than the Altmer were comfortable with, or had the patience for. "After him! Chase him down!"
Despite the foliage, the trees and shrubbery, the traveller found it difficult to lose the voices chasing after him. The same environment which was failing to conceal him was proving a difficulty: he had to watch his step. The mask was starting to showcase its limiting side, limiting the breath the traveller could draw, limiting his eyesight: forcing him to walk in a proverbial tunnel, dodging both trees and knee-high shrubbery that populated the Cyrodiil forests. His pursuers, luckily, were not having a better time. They found it difficult to set arrows after him, but also found it impossible to stop tracking him.
The forest broke out into an open road, the traveller was quick to assume the path of least resistance, and follow the seemingly endless road now set before him. The sound of armour-clad feet hitting hard dirt and rock were still audible behind him; all the while feeling as if the heavy blade slung over his back was getting more and more difficult to carry. Every so often, the distinct noise of a bow-string being let loose rung through his ears, as an odd arrow passed by him. This forced the traveller to avoid, to sidestep, and ultimately, to lose ground. This was unsustainable, it needed to end.
Thoughts, ideas, strategies, plans - a plan! Running hadn't worked, but it had gained him one thing: the enemy was now clustered together. The traveller quickly glanced over his shoulders, to confirm his theory: the archers were no longer in a position to pin and kill him at a moment's notice, or at least, not without him getting to the mage first. This provided fuel for a flame which was still burning: hope for surviving this little confrontation. He glanced down to further develop his plan: three scrolls tucked away on a bandolier running across his chest. Good, this was sufficient.
He quickly absorbed the energy within two of them, leaving the third. Turning himself for a moment, he unleashed a fireball towards the Thalmor chasing him, and then another. Flame, heat, this time very real, proved ineffective. The shouts and footsteps kept persisting. The traveller, his left hand grasping the last scroll, lessened his stride until fully halted. He faced about, faced his enemies, and drew the sword off of his back, letting blade rest against the dirt path. The Altmer formed a semi-circle, some ten metres away from him.
"So," the mage spoke with a distinct lack of breath, "you're finally... Done running?" Tired, winded, of course. All of them were. So was the traveller. The Thalmor mage, perhaps out of arrogance, stepped forth and raised his voice: "Well then! Necromancer! What will it be?!"
A mistake. The traveller broke into a charge, his left hand dispensing the caught magicka over his body and armour as he did so. The archers, their bows obviously at full draw, let loose their arrows. Ineffective: the coating of energy rendered the projectiles useless, they were quickly deflected by the spell's effects. Before the mage could react, the heavy blade had been swung up high, and then back down again, slicing into his shoulder. Robe, skin and bone cracked under the weight and speed. With a grunt, his life was extinguished.
The two footsoldiers charged the traveller as he was attempting to remove his weapon from the husk before him. Their strikes required immediate action: he raised his left gauntlet in defence, it bearing heavier construction than the right: less movement range, but more protection, and deflected the blows. He discarded the idea of using his main sword, and quickly fell back to using the longsword, unsheathing it and charging at the pair assaulting him. A few moments of metal crashing against metal, adrenaline, grunts and screams, and the two Altmer swordsmen fell.
The archers, the advantage of range being non-existent, had been provided with no chance. Very quickly did the fight end at that point.
Seven bodies, clothed in garb very noticeable, would attract attention. The traveller reacquired his lost blade, picking it up and sheathing it, along with the longsword. He needed to put distance between him and the scene, and so he did. He picked a direction, and started walking down the road. The traveller chose to walk until the late autumn sun had disappeared, after which he pulled into the treeline forever flanking the road.
He found a tree, a large one, inside the forest. It was out of view from anyone travelling down the road, and would serve as the safest place one could hope to find now. He needed rest, and he knew this. With his equipment still adorning him, his legs splayed out in front of him, and his back resting against the old tree, the traveller fell into slumber under the star-riddled sky.
Author's notes: First thing I've posted here. As a point, this is mainly created to start refining my writing skills, and the publication would actually provide incentive to finish chapters, as opposed to simply leaving them half-written, or without an end. Hopefully some find this tale interesting.