The first thought through my head was that whatever I'd been drinking last night, I should never touch again. Then, the rest of my thoughts caught up.
I couldn't be hung over, because I hadn't touched booze in over fifty years. Even if I had broken that streak for some reason, if I was hung over, the voices in my head would have been feeling it too. Since they seemed annoyingly chipper, that left one possible culprit for my misery: head trauma. Unlike diseases or chemical influences, I get that all to myself. Joy.
Eyes still closed, I took stock of my body's condition. My head was throbbing, and when I shifted my neck, dried blood flaked off. My legs responded normally, which was good. My right arm was tied to my torso with rough, fraying ropes. I tested them, but the bonds were too tight to break. Even worse, I didn't have enough feeling in my fingers to cast even a simple spell. That was less good. My left arm was gone. Slag!
Whoever had captured me had removed my prosthetic arm. While this would definitely make it easier for them to keep me captured, being one-handed and possibly concussed was not a great way to start my day. On the bright side, they left the connecting plate in my left shoulder, so if I could get or build a new arm I could attach it with little trouble. I didn't feel especially hungry, and didn't have any wounds aside from the massive lump on my head, but my armor and clothes had been removed. Instead of my usual garments, I seemed to be dressed in a scratchy burlap sack with arm holes torn in it and a pair of threadbare pants. Neither smelled like they had ever heard of soap and the lice living within were doubtlessly loving their new home. I was sitting on a rough splintery bench, which was swaying from side to side. Between that and the noises around me, I figured that I was in a horse-drawn carriage, being chauffeured to prison or trial with some fellow prisoners. Finally feeling ready to face my circumstances, I opened my eyes.
Sure enough, I was sitting in a cart with three other prisoners, travelling through a pine forest. Wherever we were was probably in close-ish to the poles of this planet, but it was definitely during what passed for summer in this frigid dump. Have I mentioned that I HATE the cold? I do, and so do the voices in my head. When I started studying magic, I focused on pyromancy for several very good reasons, and that was definitely one of them. Another cart with four more captives was rolling along in front of me. The carts' drivers and the mounted guards around me were all wearing some kind of Roman-style leather armor, and their shields sported an unfamiliar crest of a silver dragon. One of the other prisoners in my cart was dressed like I was, but the other two were wearing some kind of uniform. A blue, quilted tunic over light links of poorly made chain mail, by the look of it. I suppose they couldn't afford anything better, but it at least looked warm. The voices idly wondered how hard it would be for me to get one. They both had blonde hair, and looked kind of similar. One of them had a beard and a gag on, and one of them was stubbly and could speak. Stubble soldier noticed that I was awake, and gave me an appraising look.
"Hey," he said to me. A real quick wit, that one. One of the voices suggested I bite his ankles off, but I ruthlessly quashed my errant thoughts. "Are you alright? The Imperials picked you up trying to cross the border. Same as us, and that thief over there" Us probably meant the uniform guys, and Mr. burlap was therefore the thief. The thief gave stubble soldier an angry look.
"This is all you Stormcloaks' fault!" he accused stubble soldier, "the Empire was nice and lazy before you came along. I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now!" I mentally filed that information. If I ever needed to sell a stolen horse here, Hammerfell, wherever that was, was the place to go. Gag soldier grunted furiously at the notion that the Stormcloaks (what a pretentious name!) were at fault for the thief getting captured, and the thief gave him a look of disgust. "What's his problem?" the thief asked stubble soldier.
"Watch your tongue!" stubble soldier exclaimed, whipping himself into a self-righteous fury. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!" That's bad for me and the thief. Really bad. If they captured the rebel leader of a rival faction in a war of succession and us along with him, then chances are that the Imperials will execute us all just to be safe. The thief paled, and opened his mouth to say something that was probably cowardly, self-serving, and stupid, so I cut him off.
"So, what you're saying is," I began with a huge 'eat slag' plastered on my face, "That you're an idiot who is blindly following an even bigger idiot." The cart driver, who had opened his mouth to shut us up, closed his jaws with an audible snap. "The fact is," I continued, "You all are obviously incompetent. If you weren't, you would be in one of your strongholds, rather than gallivanting about the countryside with only five guards, waiting for Imperial with an ambush and a little ambition to scoop you up. I have one arm and a head wound, and I could come up with a better plan than that. So because you don't have two brain cells to rub together, we're all bound for the chopping block." Stubble soldier worked his mouth open and shut a couple of times in obvious shock at my words while the thief stifled a dark chuckle and gag soldier, apparently Ulfric Stormcloak, glared at me. It's not like he could do anything else. The driver practically doubled over in a fit of giggles, before putting on an artificially serious face when an officer in higher quality armor gave him a sharp look. As the Stormcloaks, and yes that name is still incredibly lame, glared daggers at me we passed through the gates of a small, roughshod, feudal-looking town.
"General Tullius, Sir. The headsman is waiting." An Imperial inside the gates called out to an old guy at the front of the column with fancy, gold-inlayed armor. I guess the stupidity isn't limited to the Stormcloaks if an Imperial general is just as willing to expose himself. Maybe they use lead pipes for their water or something. Townsfolk muttered as we passed. I blew them a raspberry. The guards and the prisoners gave me a funny look. If you can't beat them, annoy them. Sometimes they get irritated enough to make a mistake.
The carts soon stopped in a courtyard, in front of a bloody chopping block. An officer in heavier Roman-style armor stood next to a bear of a masked axeman dressed in black and an old woman in a robe behind the block. If I had to guess, those were the headsman and a priestess to give us our last rites. I didn't intend to need either, but still. The officer was probably the only real legionary in the group, because she was wearing metal armor. The other Imperials, in lighter leather armor, were probably either scouts or auxiliaries, not front-line troops. My opinion of Ulfric took a nosedive, since the Imperials didn't even need to deploy their elite soldiers to capture him. The Imperials shoved us out of a wagon, and lined us up. Two auxiliaries went to process the prisoners in the other wagon, while the officer and an auxiliary with a book walked over to process us. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." called the auxiliary, sounding like a bored schoolteacher. Ulfric grunted at him, and then walked off to stand in front of the block. "Ralof of Riverwood." Stubble soldier raised his chin and gave the auxiliary a disgusted look before walking to join Ulfric. I guess stubble soldier, Ralof, and the auxiliary knew each other. "Lokir of Roricstead." The thief, who had been getting steadily paler, gave a start.
"You can't do this to me!" he whined, "We're not rebels! Tell them we aren't with you!" The Stormcloaks from the next wagon over gave him a blank look. With a cry of "You're not going to kill me!" the thief put on an impressive turn of speed. However, he wasn't fast enough to escape the arrow that a guard put through his butt. He lived like a coward, and he died like one too. I woulda felt sorry for him if I'd known him well enough to care. Instead, I was mostly just glad he tried to run. Lokir had shown me the key to escaping, and I would honor his sacrifice by doing just that. After all, the thief had given me a gift of knowledge; if I tried to run, the Imperials would give me an arrow. Idea.
Taking a deep breath, I expanded my magical senses. Most laypeople don't know this, but the practice of magic isn't limited to throwing around fire and lightning and pickles, although that stuff's certainly on the table. Also, I'm hungry. An experienced mage's body is steeped in magical power from long years of practice. As a master of magics of fire, metal, and time, I have several advantages over a normal person. Fire magic renders me immune to the effects of extreme heat. Metal magic lets me sense the presence of nearby metal, handy for pointing out concealed weapons or ambushes. Time magic renders me immune to the effects of age, and grants the ability to see the future. I didn't exactly reach my 25,142 birthday through diet and exercise alone. All of this happens without any use of power on my account.
That said, there are some limits to this, especially my precognition. Generally, I keep it at a low level, no more than three to five seconds into the future. The further ahead one looks, the greater the future one sees varies based on one's actions in the present. Look too far ahead, or lose focus, and one can be driven mad by the overwhelming abundance of information. The last thing I need is to become less sane, so 30 seconds ahead is my absolute limit without extensive meditation to prepare. If I could do it more easily, I probably wouldn't have been captured (Not that I remember how I got here. The concussion probably screwed up my short-term memory.). As I expanded my senses, I allowed one of the voices I usually keep bottled up tightly to increase its influence over my actions.
"Wait a minute," the auxiliary said, scanning his book, "You're not on the list. Who are you?"
"This isn't fair!" I whined, allowing a manic expression to cross my face. It must have been effective, because both Imperials took a step back. "I want one too!" The Imperials exchanged shaken glances. Whatever they had been expecting me to say, this clearly wasn't it, and they had no idea what I was talking about. "An arrow!" I clarified. "I want an arrow. That other guy got one and I didn't and that's not fair and I want one!" The Imperials looked at me like I'd just lost my mind. Hah. It's been gone for eons.
"You… want us to shoot you with an arrow," the auxiliary said slowly, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Because we shot him dead for trying to run away and you feel left out."
"Yes!" I clarified, flashing him a winning smile, "Gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie!"
"We're not going to shoot you in cold blood!" he exclaimed, doubtlessly full of honor and indignation, and chivalry and all that scrap. I would make a comment about hook, line, and sinker if what I was saying wasn't disturbingly close to how I actually wanted to act.
"Why not?" I questioned, honestly puzzled.
"We can't just shoot you!" the auxiliary shot back frantically, "You're a prisoner of war. It wouldn't be right. We have to follow the articles of war."
"Soooo," I reasoned, "You are perfectly willing and happy to have somebody chop me up with an axe, but you won't shoot me. There is something very wrong with your morals." Can't believe I just said that. Oh, the doublethink.
"I'm not even sure that we want to execute you," the auxiliary said, "You aren't on the list, so you aren't wanted by the Empire for any major crimes that we know of. We won't execute you for no reason. Who are you, anyway?"
"Forget the list, Hadvar" the officer said, "I'm tired of her drivel. If she was captured with Ulfric, she's probably a traitor too. She goes to the block."
"I'm giving you one last chance," I warned my captors. "We can do this the easy way or the fun way. You shoot me now, or I get shot later, but that arrow will be mine!" They ignored me. "Fun way it is! Hah-HAH!" With that exclamation, I charged forward, surprising them so much that they froze for a second. "An opening!" I shouted, and used the opportunity to jump up toward the auxiliary, Hadvar. I got a brief foothold on his list, another on his shoulder, and a third on his face as I kicked and free-ran my way over his falling, stunned body. Everybody around me froze as I charged the archer that had shot Lokir, laughing with the simple joy reserved for children and lunatics. A rhythmic, thudding noise, like air being displaced by a sail, began sounding from somewhere in the distance, but I ignored it. It wouldn't help me get that arrow, after all. The officer definitely had something on the ball. Even if the others weren't, she had to be a real legionary.
"What are you waiting for," the officer bellowed, "Shoot her! Now!" I grinned and slowed my pace slightly, giving the shaken archer I was charging just enough time to draw an arrow and fire it at me. I already knew how this would turn out. As the arrow leapt from the archer's bow, I twisted my body at just the right angle, and with a thud the arrow struck my bindings, shearing through several of the thickest strands. I flexed my arm, and the weakened ropes fell away, allowing me to smash my open palm into the archer's face. As he went down like a sack of bricks, I grasped his gladius and pulled it from its sheath, the short blade gleaming in the light. The thudding grew louder, but I figured it was probably my heartbeat. I knew I should have stretched out my legs before showing that Hadvar guy the usefulness of parkour. I turned to face the crowd while Imperial and Stormcloak alike stared at me in unconcealed astonishment.
"Gotchyer sword! Ah-hahahahahaha!" They stared some more. "You can't tell me you didn't consider doing that," I admonished the Stormcloaks, "or maybe you just aren't as cool as I am. Actually, it's probably the second one." I was so focused on the Imperials, and captors and prisoners alike were so focused on me, that we almost missed the dragon.
The dragon dropped down from the sky, and landed on a tall tower behind the execution block. He was big and black, and his scaly, armored hide was covered in knobs and spikes. His eyes glowed red, lit from within by his internal fires. He opened his mouth and roared something in a guttural language that I understood none of, and the clear sky clouded over. The clouds turned red, and flaming meteorites began to rain from the sky, striking at random. One of them actually struck the dragon, but bounced off without leaving a scratch. The dragon roared something else, and a blast of pure force scattered the Stormcloaks and Imperials in the courtyard, blowing the legionary officer through a house. I decided that was my cue to leave.
I quickly scanned my surroundings, and my eyes lingered on the hole that the officer had punched in that house. The house was on fire, which tickled and licked warmly against my skin as I jumped through the hole. Pausing to check the captain for useful gear, I was disgusted to find that she had basically burst on impact, and disappointed that the leather straps on her armor had already burned away. A pity, because some armor would have been really nice. I dashed out the other side to find Hadvar the auxiliary coaxing a young boy away from a wounded older man, probably his father. As the dragon swooped around for a landing, Hadvar grabbed the struggling boy, and ran for cover right before the dragon landed in front of where he had been seconds ago and bathed the area in dragon-fire. Hadvar handed the boy off to an old, armored man, and gave him a few quick orders. "Gunjar, take the boy and get as many of the townspeople to safety as you can!" Gunjar gave Hadvar a shaky nod, and darted away. "I'm going to find General Tullius and join the defense." The Imperial then turned to me, and reflexively flinched, hand going to his facial bruise, shaped exactly like my heel. "What do you want now, lunatic?!" he spat.
"I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be dragon chow," I told him. "I'm leaving. If you wish to continue living, you ought to do the same. You're no good to anyone if you get incinerated or digested. I saw that dragon shrug off a hit from one of those meteorites falling from the sky. If he could ignore that, nothing in this town is going to even scratch him."
Hadvar pondered my words for a few seconds, and to his credit quickly came up with a workable plan. "With his wings and speed, that dragon will be able to pick off most of the people who flee from the gates. There's an escape tunnel underneath the keep. We should head there, and escape underground." I nodded in agreement with his statements. A tunnel seemed much preferable to being picked off by a dragon on the wing.
The two of us dodged through the wreckage of the town, and made it to the doors of the keep, passing by the smoldering corpse of Ralof. Evidently, he had taken a meteorite hit, as most of his chest was just gone. Quickly, we ducked inside. I took a blanket off of one of the beds inside the keep barracks for warmth, and we made a dash for the exit, avoiding the shell-shocked Imperials and Stormcloaks fleeing the dragon. Fairly soon, but not soon enough for my tastes, we burst from the entrance of a large cave, which the escape tunnel connected to, into the dim sunlight of Skyrim, as this land was called according to Hadvar. The Imperial soldier gave me a tired smile as we stood panting, watching the black dragon wing his way north, into the distance. "Thank you for your help," he stated tiredly, "I don't think I could have made it without you. The closest town to here is Riverwood. My uncle Alvor is the blacksmith. He'll be able to help us out." The soldier glanced at my purloined blanket and borrowed sword with a wry grin, and added, "maybe he'll give you some warmer clothes." As the two of us staggered, exhausted, down a nearby cobbled road, a signpost caught my eye. An arrow in the direction we were heading had the word 'Riverwood' written on it, and another pointing back behind us stated 'Helgen'. Helgen, I thought to myself with a sense of finality. That place blows.