When I was a young man growing up in Skyrim, my dear brother was nothing but a distant memory. The only connection I had to my late brother, besides for the 10 short years of my life I spent with him, was a family heirloom, identical to his; a golden amulet, with our family crest carved in.
My brother had moved away to Daggerfall, to escape the harsh living of Nordic life. Father wouldn't have it at first- he was a stern follower of our old traditions. But mother knew him well and allowed him to leave. One day, he stopped writing. He was presumed dead, and my mother passed of grief a year after.
When the war between the Alliances broke out, my father wanted to join. Alas, the old Nord was too worn from years of cold winters and hard labor. As any grief stricken, proud-filled Nord of 20 years would, I joined with the Pact. As Akatosh as my witness, I swore into a life of soldiering- a life I would regret.
My time in training wasn't bad; fun, even. They gave us our swords and our armor, and taught us how to use them. They told us of Glory, of Honor. They told us we would be sending them Elven bastards back to Summerset, where they belonged. They told us we would come back to our homes as tall, battle-hardened men, with many a kill to our name, bound for Sovengarde just like the old heroes from Atmora.
I was a Pact-Trained killing machine, full of excitement and pride for my homeland.
In my first steps in our march to Cyrodiil, I thought, "I'll make them proud."