Sharp winds viciously glide through Skyrim's cold air, howls carried in the breeze akin to wolves closing in from beyond the horizon without warning. No warmth is to be found in the northern lands, not from the elements forsaken by Kyne herself, no sought after mercy to be seen in the eyes of men and women passing by, no peace to feel for the eyes of judgement lay fixated upon the body. Cruel, cold, heartless malice become a frightening comfort when rags adorn the flesh and ropes bind the hands of the condemned, a platoon of Imperial Legionnaires escort a carriage of Stormcloak rebels who proudly resemble the stubborn icy climate in their leather garb and blue uniforms, that of Hjaalmarch Hold. Amongst these rebels sits in solitude and silence a rather young Bosmer male: Soft skin with what once was a healthy shine of oak-brown hair now only boasts a dirty, grime-ridden mane, a piercing glow of vibrant hazel lingers within his eyes that under normal circumstances would gleam like gemstones; yet today is far beyond the ordinary.
All the Bosmer is capable of thinking about is the impending reality of his situation, trapped in ragged garbs that reek of sweat and musk, damp at the touch and losing all colour of the cloth to a grime-ridden shade of green and brown, as if the attire had spent its lifetime being thrown into moist soil repeatedly, having to surrender to horseshoes trampling over it and carriage wheels breaking its surface with unrelenting stampedes of marching soldiers to accompany it all. Such was a reality for the Bosmer as he contemplates his life choices, what could he do to escape his imprisonment? How could he narrowly evade an interpretation of justice like so many times in the past? The more those harrowing croaks of wooden wheels eternally spinning rang through his heightened ears, the greater his sorrow grew, the deeper his terror sank as the reality eventually became too real to deny: He is not escaping this time. Judgement has finally come for the convicted Mer as the grim truth of his destination became clear… The headsman's block.
"... I'm going to die here…?" He thought to himself, alone with no family to miss him, no beloved to mourn him, no friends to come rushing forth and lift him from the shackles that bind him. Yet the carriage rode on and the soldiers remained silent as the grave that awaited him. No saviour is to come for this Mer, so what is he to do other than pray for his soul to be shown a mercy that his body has been denied? After what seemed to be an age passing by, those damnable croaks of frost-bitten wood finally ceased its torturous lament, only to give way to a fresh demon: The unmistakable song of a freshly sharpened blade, whistling through the bitterly frozen air. The Executioner, wreathed in his stitched black cowl gazed upon the victims of his beloved Axe with what could only be described as a macabre grin of demented satisfaction, his eyes hungrily scanning over the bodies of the Stormcloak prisoners and the Bosmer alike, as if judging how swift his blade could sink through the flesh, how many swings might it take for the blade to tear through bone and sinew.
The young Bosmer began to tremble in his rotten, degenerative rags, still latching onto the now impossible odds that something would rescue him from this Gods-forsaken fate. The world around him grew silent, bodies moved and wind blew tapestries wild from their metallic holsters yet the only sound audible in the Bosmer's mind was his own heartbeat, thumping with vigour within his chest to a point where he believed it sought to burst out. At least such a demise would be by his own reckoning, not that of an Imperial lapdog whipped into bowing to the whims of the Thalmor. As the Bosmer's eyes beheld the fate of a Stormcloak rebel, whose lips made out the final cry of "To Sovngarde!" before the gleaming axe came crashing down upon the man's nape, splitting the flesh asunder and obliterating the bones with ease: One fell swoop and the Stormcloak soldier's severed head rolled along the cobblestone path now stained crimson with Nordic blood, an unfortunate reminder that the heated Civil War is only good for the destruction of Skyrim's sons and daughters.
North, east, south, west, no direction held comfort for the condemned man as he fearfully took in his surroundings: mountainous slopes of rock and grass dotted the landscape, short yet lively trees grew from the soil and the sound of a river endlessly thrashing against the rocks echoed in the distance. He sought out structures, rooftops of distant homes or battlements of a ruined keep, anything to show even a chance of civilization nearby only for his elven eyes to deceive him. No settlements were close, this Imperial campsite remained the only known dwelling, deep in the wildlands. He counted three large tents, decorated in traditional Imperial crimson with golden tapestries and a blazing etching of the Dragon Symbol that became synonymous with the Empire of Cyrodiil.
The Bosmer grew desperate, sweat began to form upon his finely sculpted brow, audible breaths began to escape his thin, cracking lips as his turn for the Headsman's Axe drew. As he took his first step, he prayed to the Gods of Aetherius, he thought back on the news of Helgen's mythical destruction at the hands of a remnant of history: A Dragon attacking Skyrim, returning from ages of silence and mystique only to burn down a seemingly random town in Whiterun Hold. Such desperate pleads came to his mind, would a Dragon do him the same courtesy? Could an ancient Akaviri serpent of the skies swoop down, cast its shadow upon the Legionnaires and let out its triumphant Thu'um to incinerate his captives in a blaze of fire and fury? The Gods were silent and no shadow cast itself upon the bloodied stone ground, which made the Bosmer clench his teeth. What else can a man do as death beckons him?
Falling to his knees, staring at the bloodied block of wood with a sickening curve to rest his neck upon, he placed his head down and tried to hold back the tears in his eyes, wanting at least the comfort of knowing he died bravely, even if his soul knew it to be a falsehood. His body clenched, the stench of blood filling his nostrils, sweat soaking his flesh and veins becoming visible upon his face as he braced for the Axe to pierce his neck and part his head from his shoulders… A scream followed, but not his own. His eyes swiftly opened to see the Executioner fallen to the ground with an iron arrow lodged into his left eye socket, furiously thrashing and flailing on the ground in pain before succumbing to the wound. "FOR SKYRIM!" A voice yells and the Stormcloaks hearken: A crescendo of victorious roars echo through the wind as a contingency of Stormcloak rebels jump into the open, engaging the Imperial Legionnaires that kept the prisoners in chains. Steel clashes against steel, squelches of blood escaping fleshy tears resound, sparks of blades in battle circulate all around as chaos takes reign through the Execution camp, allowing the Bosmer to frantically crawl over to the dead Executioner. Using the blood-stained Axe, he cuts himself free with hasty thrusts back and forth to sever the ropes that kept his hands bound. His head spinning, eyes taking in the battle that surrounds him: Stormcloak soldiers brutally clashing steel and brawn against the trained Imperials, it quickly became apparent that the Stormcloaks outnumbered the Imperials in this violent skirmish.
Spotting an Imperial archer nocking a finely crafted steel arrow, the death-defying Bosmer took the chance to charge at the unsuspecting Legionnaire as he prepared to lay waste to a Rebel: Furious cries and aggressive shouts escaped his throat as he plunged his fist repeatedly into the archer's neck, swiftly crushing the man's larynx. He had no other choice but to fall into the cold stone and suffocate to death as the Mer scavenged his longbow and quiver of arrows, swift to make a retreat after arming himself, for he had no time nor desire to become swept up in a Nord's Civil War: Death was evaded this day and he sought to hide from the reaper's gaze once more. The clashes of steel and men gradually grew silent as the Mer blindly ran in whichever direction was laid bare before him. He ran and ran for what felt like days yet no dusk settled nor any breaks of dawn lit up the skies. Eventually, he stopped and rested against some rocks off the road, though he had no time to do anything other than gasp in shock, coming close to hyperventilating as he processed what happened. Moments away from an execution, hope had been lost and in the middle of trying to accept death, his fortune became apparent and a narrow escape during a bloodied skirmish. Surprised, startled, grateful to be alive and terrified about all of it, the younger Mer laughs and cries in joy as he rests in the wilderness, for once happy to let the waters flow from his eyes and bathe his narrow cheeks.