Chapter One: Laas
Koor. The last summer that ended on Fridas the 28th of Sun's dawn. Despite that it was only one day before the beginning of Rain's Hand; the Breton couldn't help but gather warmth for the coming cold, quite typical for a stranger, such as Vector Tailwind, to do when first visiting the province of Skyrim.
The Breton was disdainful to his superiors in Cyrodil, sending him to such a harsh environment for a simple package collection that could've been easily done by the Imperials. Yet tensions between the Thalmar and the Empire were only held on a thread, understandable how they would refuse to do such an errand when they were busy preparing for another possible war. The Nords who rebelled against the Imperials weren't any help to his cause either, always reports of raids conducted on carriages entering the borders.
Luckily the safest route, which the Empire held as a way of safe passage, was from the neighbouring province of High Rock. The Breton swiftly made his way by horse, getting closer to the border crossing, anxious to get across without any deadly encounters. The cold wind brushed right through the Breton, he cursed under his breath as he put out his hand. A cloak of fire surrounded himself and the steed, keeping them temporarily warm as they closed in on the bridge ahead.
As they approached the crossing, Vector identified two figures near the entrance to the bridge and immediately decreased his speed, slowly approaching the two men.
"Stop right thar outlander." The first man spoke with his brisk Nordish accent.
"To cross you'll need to be checked and also pay an immediate tax." Added the Bosmer , who was beside him.
Vector dismounted and stood before the two.
"You may check my inventory packs on my steed, I'm merely a messenger on business to Riften." Replied Vector
The two men quickly rummaged through the packs, sparing no time to stop and look at any of his wares.
"Nothing suspicious on you Breton, you may pass," Stated the Nord. "But ye have to pay 500 gold for passage into the border."
"I'll not accept a price as outrageous as that," Replied Vector. "I haven't much time to waste Nord, please let me pass."
The Nord took out his battle axe rested it on his shoulder, just as the Bosmer drew his bow and arrow.
"No gold, no safe passage into Skyrim, nahgahdinok." The Nord taunted.
Vector unlatched his staff from his back and held it beside him.
"I beg of you to not attempt anything, I don't like killing those who can't resist magic." He pleaded.
The Nord snarled has he advanced to attempt taking a swing at the Breton. Vector ducked, missing the double-edged blade by mere inches, before countering with a thrust of his staff into the gut of his foe. The Nord staggered back, trying to catch his breath after being winded, as the arrows began to pepper the ground near Vector.
"I'll enjoy making your head into a mantle, kerr!" he roared.
The Breton gracefully dodged and parried the arrows smoothly with ease, before suddenly having to ward another attack from the Nord, being thrown back, barely holding his balance.
"I haven't time for this." thought Vector.
The Breton advanced with frustration. Each side step he took made the two foes nervous as he got closer. The Breton managed to get them directly in line for a split second and let out a mighty shout that echoed across the snowy hinterland.
"FUS RO DAH!"
The shout sent both foes flying. The Nord was unlucky enough to break his spine as the unrelenting force smashed him against the rocks as the Bosmer was sent into the rapids, disappearing into the roaring currents leading to a nearby waterfall. Vector caught his breath for a moment, then went and stood over the dead Nord.
"Forgive me Talos, for I have sinned against one of your sons." He prayed.
Vector stayed very still, silent in remorse for the deaths of the two unfortunate bandits. Galloping away from the crossing, he progressed to Markarth, the first stop in his journey. Planning to gather supplies and re-cooperate from the battle, he was very cautious about using any form of thu'um although he was dovahkiin, Vector kept to himself and treated it as a curse rather than a birth right. The more he used thu'um, the more he realized just how much his strength stood out amongst many and in such troubling times with much political entrenchment, he wouldn't be used as a tool for war against any nation.
After weaving inside and out of mountain sides the Breton eventually found the entrance to the rock face city of Markarth, truly an architectural marvel when looking at the way houses casually stood on the mountain side with people going about their everyday lives at such fearful heights. The Breton dismounted the steed, heading towards the town's inn; The Silver-blood Inn.
By the time the Breton had his feed and share of mead, darkness fell over The Reach, deciding best to pay for a bed at the inn rather than braving the possibility of running into the rumored savages known as the Foresworn. That night Vector felt at peace when resting, for he would need a strong mind for the coming days that foretold hardship and danger, heading across Skyrim to commute to his destination; Riften.
