Unbound
Her head began to become conscious of itself again. For some reason, she felt that there were strange lights on the back of her eyelids. Did that say... Bethesda Game Studios? Finally, she became aware of a snowy scene, and a bumpy cart. She also found herself staring into the eyes of a rugged young Nord fellow, wearing some pretty snazzy armour. Maybe I'll steal that later... Her peripheral became dark again, and she swore the word 'presents' became etched into her sight. The Elder Scrolls... V? SkyWHAT? "Hey, is anyone else seeing these words? I'm getting a little creeped out here." It was the Nord who answered.
"Hey, you. You're finally awake."
"I wish I wasn't. What's even going on?"
"You were trying to cross the border, right?"
She looked at him sceptically. "No. I have literally no idea what is going on and why, the last thing I can remember is kicking a Daedra's ass in Oblivion and now I'm like a Level 0 or something." The Nord raised his brow, and did nothing more for the remainder of the journey other than occasionally purse his lips as if considering speech, but then – wisely – deciding against it. Kinda attractive, though. I wonder if I can marry him? The thief was the next one to speak, but she didn't pay attention to him; rather to the humongous man opposite him, who for some reason had a bandage around his mouth. "Hey, hey, why have you got a bandage on your mouth?"
"GABRLBRGRBL!"
"Oh, you have stomach cramps? I get them too, once a month, and then something really weird comes out of my-"
"GBRLRLRLGRBL!"
"Shut up back there!" The Imperial guard sounded slightly disgusted at the turn the conversation had suddenly taken. How bloody rude.
As the thief and the Nord continued their conversation, she became aware of a gate which was slowly opening to allow the prisoners entrance. A sweet, modest village lay ahead. Shut up Ralof, I'm trying to take in the pretty graphics I really don't care about the grape man who touched you as a boy. You look a bit like Chris Hemsworth. Her train of thought was broken by the cart coming to an abrupt halt, and she filed out onto the cobblestones with the others, while Lokir babbled more cowardly nonsense. The General called the name of the bound man, and he was revealed as Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm. Where on Earth is Windhelm? Sounds like an awful place. And what was his name, Ulfy Stormdrain? Cool. Ralof's name was called next, and then Lokir, who yelled even more about his innocence. Then, without much warning, he actually attempted to escape. GO ON LOKIR I AM ROOTING FOR YO- oh, wait. Nevermind. Rest in peace I guess. She was called next. "Who are you?" I don't know yet let me create my character, give me like 2 hours.
After a great deal of ruckus following a failed attempt to fumble about in her robes for her passport, her identification papers were finally in the guard's hands. "So, you're a Nord, and your name is... Frankie Boyle?" She nodded. "...Uhm. You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman." The captain appeared more on edge than usual, Hadvar's speech impediment beginning to get on her nerves. She urged for the execution to continue. Some guy in a dress began to address Ulfy Stormdrain, saying something along the lines of 'you killed our King with your voice!'. Of course, Frankie Boyle instantly took issue with this. "How can he have shouted the King apart when he can't even talk?"
"HRRBLRLGHGNR!"
"What? I think he wants to blow his nose. Maybe you should untie him?" Even the Priestess put her hands on her hips and scowled at this remark. Frankie Boyle was about to add to her statement when a bizarre noise echoed throughout the mountains. "What was that?" was the query of one frightened guard. General Tulisa Off Of N-Dubz rolled his eyes. "It's nothing. Carry on." The next thing Frankie Boyle paid any heed to was the red hair of a Stormcloak soldier rushing past her. I wish I could get my hair like that. Just as he placed his head onto the block, she decided to ask the burning question before it was too late. "Hey, do you use Loreal?" The executioner's monstrous axe had already buried itself deep into his neck, however, and the executioner himself answered. "Not anymore he doesn't!" He then proceeded to teabag the head of Stylish Nord. I hope he doesn't do this every execution, I mean at this rate a dragon could come back. Frankie Boyle's thought train was again halted. It was her turn. As her name was announced, the echo returned. Louder this time. Maybe I'm destined to be save-hey, don't kick me! It sounded again. A roar, now. And all at once, Imperial and Stormcloak alike gaped skyward, at the terrible sight about to swoop down on them. "Hey, is that a slug?"
The executioner threw his axe aside and ran squealing into the commotion that had manifested itself upon the arrival of the slug, and Frankie Boyle was rolled onto her side. Seeing her chance, she forced herself upright with her knees, and followed the crowd. She slammed into Ralof, who pulled her in the direction of a tower. Once inside, Frankie Boyle fell to her knees and coughed violently. Since when did slugs know how to breathe fire? I should have stayed home. "Jarl Ulfy!" Ralof yelled, "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?" and Ulfy Stormdrain replied in a calm voice, "Legends don't bu-"
"Oh my God, Ufly Stormdrain! Your bandage fell off! Let me replace it."
"HRBLRLRLLLGL!" Ufly gestured to the newly applied bandage with both of his arms, and Ralof struggled to untie it, but gave up once he had found that the knot was impossible to undo.
"How did you do that? You've just made him incapable of speech for the rest of his life! Oh, whatever. We need to get to the top of the keep. We'll kill you later or something." The group began its ascent through the tower, only to be interrupted by the shattering crash of the walls caving in, as the slug popped his head in. He turned to Frankie Boyle, who braced herself for the end. "Hey. Nice shoes." She looked down at her shoes, which were now on fire, nodded, and said "Oh, thank you. I got them from a prison cart."
"Really? Do you think they'll have them in my size? I've got a wide foot, it's difficult to find stuff." Ignoring the agonising screaming of the burning Stormcloaks, Frankie Boyle replied, "Well, I think it's one size fits all. You know, so they can fit all prisoners. Just try it, you could always ask the assistant." Before the slug could reply, Ralof sent an arrow into his eye, and as he cried out about his 'brand new false eyelashes', Ralof grasped Frankie Boyle's arm and flung her into the inn below, winding her slightly. "Go! We'll follow when we can!" Glancing up for a moment, she stumbled through the smoke and ash before finding fresh air once again, following the sound of a very familiar speech impediment.
"You made it, prisoner? Stay close," Hadvar advised, bringing his broadsword up to shield his face from falling rubble. Obligingly, Frankie Boyle followed. The slug landed again, and upon seeing him open his mouth, Hadvar and our hero slammed their bodies against the walls of what once was a house, shielding themselves from the flame and another conversation about shoes. Since when could slugs talk and breathe fire? Mary-Sue slugs. The duo raced towards wherever the Hell Hadvar was planning on going, dodging slug-fire and dazed archers not knowing where to shoot, mourning their singed eyebrows and moustaches. Ralof crossed Hadvar's path, and Frankie Boyle found herself instantly attached to Ralof's side. I need that armour. I need that armour. After some boring conversation which could have potentially given the relationship between Ralof and Hadvar a backstory, Ralof and Frankie Boyle made their way into the main building on Helgen's keep.
The keep itself was a large, circular room adorned with black and red flags sporting a bizarre, yet oddly soothing image. Ralof took a knife from the back of his boot, and swiftly cut the binding around her wrists. "Take Gunjar's gear. He won't be needing it anymore. And no, he doesn't have any of this "Loreal" that you mentioned. He used crimson nirnroot." Yes yes yes armour armour armour! Once changed, Frankie Boyle rejoined Ralof, who was attempting to unlock a gate. "Damn, no way to open this from our- wait, it's the Imperials!" The two took cover on either side of the gate, and in turn embedded their newly acquired axes into the backs of both soldiers. She noticed a key hanging from the belt of the Imperial Captain, and an iron dagger. She took these, and also the dagger from the soldier. Ralof looked puzzled. "Daggers?" He shook his head in surrender, and let Frankie Boyle get on with whatever it was that she wished to accomplish. "Unlock the gate, we need to get out of here." She obliged, and the duo was soon on their way. Or at least, they were, until the slug decided to have a tantrum (perhaps the shoes weren't in his size), causing a colossal landslide which missed the team by inches, but by some fortune left the door to their left unscathed. And so, they were on their way again. Or at least, they were, until they reached a storeroom infested with Imperials. After promptly slaying them and stealing their magic juice, they were on their way. Again. Or at least, they were, until they reached a prison cell full of Imperials, Stormcloaks and torturers; hence, not knowing which was which, Frankie Boyle murdered everybody. Soon enough, after picking a lock, the duo were on their way yet again. That is, until – oh, you know what happens. Let's just have a 'gapped narrative', always works.
Some time later...
Cold air stung Frankie Boyle's face as she and Ralof finally reached the cave entrance. He yanked her back by the scruff of her neck as the slug flew by, crying "I broke a naaiiiiill!" as he went. Ralof spun Frankie Boyle to face him. "My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road. I'm sure she'd help you out, even though you're a total stranger with no conceivable amount of common sense. I'm off to do Stormcloak stuff now, bye."
And thus, our hero was left alone, staring at the vast expanse of Skyrim.