Hello! This is my first published fanfic ever, and I just want to give you guys some general information before you read. I take lore-friendly liberties, and nothing should be too outlandish for anyone who is obsessed with the lore like me. In this story, Skyrim is roughly the size of Germany combined with Belgium and the Netherlands, and the populations of the cities match that. Likewise, the hero of our story, is not going to become a Dragonborn-Harbinger-Archer-Swordsman-Thief-Assassin-Mage Daedra worshiper like most in-game characters.
Disclaimer that The Elder Scrolls Series is property of Bethesda, and everything but some original characters/ideas are not of my creation and are property of Bethesda.
"So remember, children, this is why we must continue to revere Talos, even if the Dominion will not let us." Brother Greber concluded, his sermon over.
For three years, Skjon Ulfgar and other citizens of Bruma and nearby settlements had gathered in Toadstool Hollow, an ancient hollow south of Bruma, to listen to monthly sermons about Talos.
Although the journey to the hollow took a couple hours from Skjon's home village of Bleaker's Way, Skjon had always made the journey up every month he could.
Brother Greber closed his book and began to step down from the podium when he was stuck in the side with an arrow that flew in from the entrance to the hollow. A startled scream came from the woman sitting beside Skjon.
"Grab the heretics!" A voice sounded from the entrance, and Skjon turned to see a force of at least a dozen Thalmor pouring into the hollow.
The worshippers who stood just inside the hollow, Costhe and Rusin, grabbed for their swords as the first Thalmor ran into the hollow, with their shields raised. Not expecting an attack from the side, both Thalmor on the ends of the formation were struck with the swords.
The swords, however, did little. The untimed reflex swings were not aimed properly, a hit the shields of the Thalmor, and simply bouncing off. The Thalmor on the left bashed Costhe with his shield, knocking him off balance, and making him drop his sword. The Thalmor then pluged his sword into Costhe's gut, twisted, and continued forward.
The Thalmor on the right bashed Rusin with his shield, but Rusin, the hardy Nord he was, was able to keep his footing and weapon. He stabbed around the Thalmor's shield, and by pure luck stabbed him in between armor plates, causing the elf to howl in pain and temporarily lower his shield.
As Rusin prepared his sword for another strike, he was hit by a bolt of purple lighting from behind the Thalmor. He stood there, shocked, as he was cut down by the Thalmor soldier, who had renewed his focus.
Skjon backed off of his pew, backing towards the far wall of the hollow. He only carried a small dagger with him, and it was hardly enough to take on a dozen Thalmor. He would have no choice but to surrender and hope to escape if he wanted to live.
The advancing Thalmor were knocking down any and all in their path, and the remaining Thalmor behind them were picking them up and taking them outside.
As the Thalmor got close to him, he unsheathed his dagger and threw it on the ground in front of them, and raised his hands above his head. He could not fight these Thalmor, and this would be his only chance to get out alive.
The lead advancing Thalmor kicked the dagger behind him and lowered his shield down to his side. "That's a good Nord. Now, keep those hands up, and come here, heretic."
Skjon obliged, trying to put an unafraid scowl on his face, and walked forward towards the Thalmor. He was stunned when the Thalmor punched him in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. His hands were grabbed by the elf and held together behind his back with a stone grip as he was led outside.
Outside, the rest of the worshippers were being bound at the hands and thrown into the back of a wagon. A dozen Thalmor were standing outside including two in black hooded robes with gold trimming. One pointed at Skjon.
"Is he the last one?" A female elf questioned.
"Yes, Justicar Estaanya." The Thalmor escorting Skjon answered.
"Good. Get him into the cart."
Skjon's hands were then jerked around painfully and bound with thick rope. He was searched, stripped of his gold and Amulet of Talos, before his papers were grabbed out of his pocket.
"Skjon Ulfgar of Bleaker's Way, Bruma County. Son of the late legionnaire Frolfjorn Ulfgar, also of Bleaker's Way." the Thalmor read aloud before putting the papers into his sack and hoisting Skjon into the cart. or trying, at least.
Skjon was quite massive, even for a Nord. He was nearly as tall as the elf trying to load him, and had muscles to match his size.
"Ach, dammit! You big bastard." The Thalmor said as he began to lift Skjon into the cart, only to get him a few inches off the ground. "Umble, get over here and help me, would you?"
Skjon would have laughed if he wasn't so scared. Another Thalmor came over and helped load him into the cart, before closing and latching the gate on the back.
Skjon looked at the other prisoners in the cart, many of whom he had known since he was a young boy. They were mostly Nords, with a couple Imperials. There were men, women, even children, and from many walks of life. All bound and loaded into a cramped wagon, to be taken Gods know where, like cattle.
They knew where they were going though. Or, they assumed they knew where they were going. The Great Chapel of Talos in Bruma, which had been turned into the headquarters of the Thalmor after the Great War. After they desecrated the building, they turned it into the headquarters of their inquisition against Talos. The very building that they had once used to revere him, was used to torture his worshippers.
The cart started forward with a jolt, and the caravan of Thalmor and prisoners began towards the road. As everyone expected, the caravan turned north, towards Bruma. It would be dusk by the time they arrived, so that gave Skjon plenty of time to think.
After about a half hour of the caravan traveling up the Silver Road in near complete silence, one of the Thalmor in the black robes, who were riding at the front of the caravan, spoke.
"Justicar Estaanya, we need to stop, just for a second."
"What is it, Justicar Calcano?" The female said back.
"I need to use the restroom."
"Can't it wait? We're a half hour from Bruma, you can go then."
"I can't wait any longer, I've had to go since before we left the heretic's den."
"Oh, for the love of Auri-El, Calcano. Fine." The female Justicar said annoyed, and signaled the caravan to stop.
Skjon was able to turn his head and see the other Justicar dismount from his horse. "If anyone else needs to go, go now. There will be no more stops until we get to Bruma."
With Skjon's initial fear subsiding, he was able to chuckle just a bit at this. For as high and mighty as the Altmer made themselves out to be, it was funny to see them annoyed by everyday problems.
As the caravan pulled off to the side of the road and stopped, Skjon's hand brushed up against a sharp bit of metal in the cart. He tried to feel it, and discovered it was a loose nail, just barely sticking out of the cart.
Skjon ran his hand over it, this time with the rope. The Thalmor who had tied his hands together has been careless, because the rope caught on the nail and loosened. This gave Skjon hope. If he could get his hands unbound, he could escape from the wagon and make a break for the forests. Being the last one in, he was closest to the gate, and could just barely see the latch through the gaps in the wood.
The caravan started back up as the other Justicar got back into formation, and Skjon began working to get the rope looser and looser. After fifteen minutes, the nail had been loosened to the point of falling out, which it did.
The ropes, however, had loosened too. With a stretch of his hands Skjon felt the bindings come off his hands. It was painful to keep them still for the rest of the ride, but Skjon was able to manage.
After another fifteen minutes, the city of Bruma was visible just ahead. The first thing Skjon could see was the steeple of the former Chapel. Skjon had never been inside the Chapel before, as he was born after the Great War. His father, however, had told him stories about it. He knew he wouldn't be seeing the altar with a shrine or be greeted by a kind priest.
As the caravan neared the gates, it began to slow down. Skjon made sure his hands were completely free and the latch was within reach by the time they stopped. The caravan slowed to a stop as the two Justicars in front hailed for the gate to be open. Skjon made his move.
He was able to pop the latch to the cart without hardly moving, and then looked at either of the Thalmor who were stopped beside him. They were paying no attention to him. Skjon kicked the gate with his foot, and made a break for it.
The two Thalmor in the back hollered out to the Justicars and then gave chase, but Skjon had darted into the woods, the twilight helping to mask his escape.
It was then a game of running behind trees and moving through the thickest parts of the forest's edge, trying to lose the Thalmor. Eventually, after not being able to find Skjon for a few minutes, the Thalmor dismounted from their horses and began to look on foot.
Skjon wasn't very good at sneaking, but he was able to sneak his way over to the Thalmor's horses. He kept his eyes on the Thalmor, who were very close to giving up. From behind him, he heard the crunching of leaves and sticks, and turned to see four other Thalmor riding their horses in.
Skjon was in another now or never situation, and realized he had to steal the horse before he was seen. Uttering a prayer to Kyne to hope the horse was fast and quiet, he mounted up on the horse.
The horse, thank Kyne, made no noise. Skjon gave it a couple of swift kicks and snapped the reins, and the horse took off into the forest.
"There! Bastard!" Came a shout from one of the approaching Thalmor, who saw and heard the horse take off into the forest. "Get him!"
Skjon didn't dare turn around to see, but he knew they were chasing him. He thought he heard four horses, but there could be a dozen for all he knew. He just kept focused on keeping the horse going as fast as possible, and watching for hazards in the woods.
After awhile, the forest turned dark as night fell. The Thalmor were still hot on his trail, and Skjon could tell his horse was beginning to slow down. The horses the Thalmor were using were not for long distance galloping, and did not have much endurance. Skjon knew he had to escape them soon, or he would be captured again.
After another five minutes of chasing, luck sided with Skjon. The Thalmor, for whatever reason, backed off. After a few more moments, they had quit following him completely. Skjon kept riding for just a few minutes more before he brought his horse to a stop. It was dark, and Skjon had no idea where he was, besides the fact that he was in a forest, and it was cold.
Skjon thought about where he had went after he ran. He had went into the forest running east, and then took off north on horseback. Assuming that he had gone relatively straight, Skjon was near the road going to Pale Pass through the Jerrel Mountains, that went into Skyrim.
Skyrim was in a state of rebellion, and the rebellion was centered on Talos, or so Skjon had heard. They were called the Stormcloaks, lead by some Jarl named Uric or Ulfric or something like that.
Skjon thought about the prospect of escaping to Skyrim and joining this rebellion. He had never really thought about going against the Empire his father had fought so bravely for, or that he had lived as a citizen of for all his life. But he was wanted by the Thalmor now, and the Thalmor would hunt him down if he went home.
Skjon figured he didn't exactly have to join the rebellion, but simply go to the rebel held areas to be safe. At the same time, this could make him considered an enemy of the Empire, which he was not sure he wanted to be.
A howl in the distance brought Skjon back from his thoughts. He had no weapon, and it was night in a forest. He needed to find shelter, which would unfortunately mean going on a road, and possibly into a Thalmor trap.
Skjon rode his horse west, toward where he thought a road would be. Sure enough, he found one. He turned to the north, and to his suprise, he saw he was a short distance from the Skyrim-Cyrodiil border gate and Pale Pass. He turned his head to the south and saw a clear road back to Bruma.
He lead his horse out onto the road, and toward Bruma. He wanted to tell his family what was going on, and be able to say goodbye and maybe get some money and supplies. After riding for a couple minutes, he rounded a gentle curve and nearly had a heart attack as he saw four horses with tall riders coming towards him, slowly. They were far away, though, and Skjon was sure they hadn't spotted him.
Skyrim it is. Skjon thought as he turned his horse around and began galloping towards Skyrim, wishing his former life goodbye.
Some of you may have realized that Skjon is not the name of the person mentioned in the description, and that Frolfjorn is his fathers name. This will be covered in the next chapter, which should be out soon. Chapters will start to get shorter as time progresses.