Author's Note: Been a while since I've posted on here, but I've been writing this story for a little bit. I figured I'd share. This is the first bit I wanted to publish. I've still go a few more things to write on the next section. We learn the young man's name in the second one, so wait a bit. Anyway, enjoy! Leave a review! Thanks!


His skin was the color of snow, the gentlest tinge of gray underneath his wide eyes—wide eyes with irises the color of purple wine. He was often lumped in with the Dunmer, but he was brought up by two Nords—Broni and Ondena Stone-Shaper. Broni was a greatly superstitious man in his short life, having passed away a year ago, and he often insisted his great great grandmother's eyes were red, cursed to be the color of the elf she killed many years ago. Broni told the young man this story many times, often omitting the more graphic parts until he got older. But, despite the bloody past Broni's mother had with the Dunmer (they worshiped Daedra instead of the Divines), the young man's mother and father never faulted the boy for his cursed visage nor did the people of Cyrodiil.

He called Cyrodiil home for almost 30 years. He lived mostly in Bruma, but he moved to Skingrad once he was a man grown. He did this in order to learn the skill of Smithing, something he was quite good at now. He learned from the greatest smith in all of Skingrad (and Cyrodiil for that matter), and before that, Broni taught him how to work a forge and smith iron weapons and tools. Now though, he left Cyrodiil for Skyrim, looking to pass the border with his official paperwork. He was to head to Riften and apprentice with his uncle, Balimund. In his pack, he had letters from Balimund, requesting his presence in Skyrim. Balimund had no children of his own, so Broni might have mentioned his own son before his death.

Pale Pass was always cold, even before he left for Skingrad. Sure, the summery town had spoiled him horribly, but he still felt the chill in his veins, his Nord blood barely keeping him alive. The cold was peaceful for him though. It reminded him of home and snowball fights with his mother. He remembered the way his mother would cook sweet rolls for him and set them out on the table. His father would snatch one or two, but the young man would always eat four or five. He loved sweets. He loved his home.

Home, a small wooden home in Bruma (now only inhabited by his mother), was behind him, buried in the snowy town he ran through as a boy. He briefly wondered what happened to all of his old friends and where they went after he left. However, missing his friends did not last too long. Shouting caught his attention at the border to Skyrim. Within the raging winter storm, the young man saw a few men fighting with Imperial soldiers. Perhaps he could help the soldier and gain passage to a nearby village (hopefully one with a wagon or carriage). He ran forward and aimed a blow at a large hulking man, hoping to penetrate his thick furs. However, at that moment, the colossal Nord's great sword flew back, poised to strike a soldier. The sword's pommel slammed into the young man's head and knocked him out cold. How was he going to explain this?


Light filtered through his eyelashes as he woke from his slumber. He could hear the soft creak of a carriage taking him somewhere. Hopefully, the Imperials had won and were taking him somewhere warm or somewhere to cure his headache. He had a potion in his bag. Maybe they left his bag with him. He fully opened his eyes, the snow piling up on evergreen trees filling his vision. The young man moved to stretch his arms above his head, only to be stopped by the rope joining his wrists together. He was in bond? Why?

"Hey! You… You're finally awake," a voice called out. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us and that thief over there." The speaker was a young blonde headed Nord, a dull contrast to the dark haired, wine eyed companion.

"Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I'd have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." The horse thief turned to the young man and stared intently at him. They held each others eyes for a moment until the horse thief continued.

"You there, you and me...we shouldn't be here. It's the Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"We're all brothers in bind now," the blonde Nord remarked. He wasn't wrong.

"Shut up back there!" Everyone in the cart turned their head towards the driver, scowling. Thankfully, it was quiet for a moment, the gentle lilting of the carriage almost lulling the young man to sleep, but the blonde Nord and horse thief had other plans.

"What's wrong with him?" The horse thief inquired, gesturing towards the older man across from him.

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" The young man turned to his bench mate. Ulfric did not look like a High King. He'd heard of the rebellion, but he'd never seen it up close. Ulfric was blonde, but he had lost the luster in the strands, leaving the hair dirty looking. He had a stern face, wide and stretched out like a caricature, his nose thicker and longer than a thumb and twice as ridiculous. Something told the young man he would see Ulfric again. Something told the young man he would not die today.


Windhelm was in a tizzy this morning. The Jarl was gone, taken by the Empire. Men and women gathered up their goods, positively prepared to pack up and leave should the Empire try to take Windhelm. Couriers ran to and fro, some coming to the hold and some leaving. They carried messages containing worry and words of warning. The people were in a panic, save for the dark elves.

"A drink to Jarl Stormcloak! For getting captured and giving us elves some time to breathe!"

"To Jarl Stormcloak!"

New Gnisis Cornerclub was bright and merry, a stark difference between the wild anarchy outside its walls. Within the "club," a young woman (a dark elf by Nord standards though not by Dunmer standards) sat near the back, knitting a scarf for the young dog snoozing at her feet. She was pretty with unmarred skin the color of frosted lavender. Her hair was a deeper purple than her skin, curls of the coarse hair falling in her face from time to time.

"Ris! Rissa! ENDRISSA DRES! Hello?"

The young woman, Endrissa, glanced up at the Dunmer calling her name. He was her best friend, Mevein, and he was her best friend since birth. However, he was a bit older than her by at least 20 years, the lack of hair on his head proving it to those who did not believe. However, his age was arbitrary. Mer lived longer than half-mer (and half-mer lived longer than the humans), so Mevein and Endriss were about the same age… in mer years. Sort of.

"Are you going to join the celebration?"

"No, Ulfric Stormcloak will not die anytime soon," she said, not looking up; "He's going to escape from Helgen."

With that, Mevein slumped, sorrow seeping into his features. The problem with the statement was not her traitorous words but the truth in them. Endrissa had the Sight. While the Sight was useful, the Sight was also fickle. The future changed frequently with free will, but the general prediction was mostly right.

"Don't tell them," Ris said softly. She looked up at Mevein with a small smile, and he nodded understandingly. The Gray Quarter had not been this happy in a while. Endrissa looked to keep the elves happy.

"Of course I won't tell them, Ris… If you have a drink with me."

She paused and looked down at her pup, Zeni, and she sighed. Standing up, she sat her skein of yarn down and rubbed her hands on her dress.

"Well. Lead the way. If I am going to drink, I'm going to drink wine, all right?"

"Fair enough, Ris. Fair enough."