Thus begins my venture into creative writing. Skyrim FTW.
All credit to Bethesda for everything Elder Scrolls. Cheers, guys.
Chapter 1: Sovngarde Beckons
The darkness began to lift.
Kharza's silvery eyes fluttered open. His weary head lolled from side to side. His vision was blurred.
He was on a cart.
The scars on Kharza's cheek itched, as they always did in the morning. He moved to scratch his face, only to find his hands bound. Sunlight pierced the veil of surrounding mist, greeting Kharza's silvery-white eyes harshly, awakening a splitting pain in his head. He grimaced; the pain ushered a soft moan from his lips.
"Hey, you," he heard. A man's voice. "You're finally awake."
Kharza looked upon the man addressing him. A Nord, strong of build and blond of hair, clad in light armor, shrouded in blue cloth. Kharza looked to his right-the cart was full of many such Nords.
"Didn't know if you'd ever come to your senses," the blond man said through a hint of a smile. "Took quite a nasty bump on the head back there, Khajiit. Can you remember anything of what happened?"
Kharza closed his eyes. Violent images of red armor and blue, of shouting, cursing, of the cries of horses and the sounds of steel being drawn.
"Imperial soldiers," Kharza replied, trying hard to recover memory.
His mind's eye recalled a horse rearing up in front of him and knocking him to the ground. After that, only darkness.
"Aye, the Imperials," the blond man said. "A whole rotten heap of them ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing. They took the lot of us prisoner, along with you and that thief over there."
Kharza's eyes flitted to the right. He saw a scrawny, dark-haired fellow sitting between two more soldiers in blue.
"Damn you Stormcloaks," he said indignantly. "Everything was fine until you showed up. The Imperials were nice and lazy. If it weren't for this mess you caused, I would've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now."
"No use in complaining about it, thief," said the blond man. "Seems we're all in this together now."
"Shut up back there!" barked the driver. Kharza decided he did not care for the driver.
"And what about this one?" asked the thief, gesturing with a jerk of his chin to the man sitting to Kharza's right.
"I'd mind my manners if I were you, horse thief," said the blond man. "You're speaking of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim."
Kharza eyed the man. He was dressed in thick furs and muzzled tightly with heavy cloth. Kharza knew of the man. Word had spread throughout the Empire of this Ulfric Stormcloak and his campaign to rid Skyrim of the Empire.
"I think, then, that I know what awaits us," Kharza sighed.
"Aye," said the blond man. "It seems Sovngarde beckons today."
The jostling of the cart was doing Kharza's head no favors. Nor was the incessant whining of the horse thief.
"What's your story, Khajiit?" asked the blond man.
Kharza sighed.
"My name is Kharza. I came to this land hoping to find a place as a trader among my people's caravans. It seems my timing was poor." It was only half the story, but Kharza didn't feel the need to divulge anything more. Further details weren't necessary now.
The blond man nodded. "I am Ralof. It's good to meet you, Kharza. Pity it couldn't be under better circumstances."
There wasn't much talking for a while after that. How long, Kharza knew not. Then the road began to even out. Kharza saw that they were approaching a town.
"This is Helgen," the blond man said. "I used to visit here often, years ago. Pretties girls in the hold. The innkeeper used to mix juniper berries in with his mead-wonder if he's still doing that. I suppose those days are over for me, now."
Kharza's heart when out to Ralof; it seemed better days were behind them all. The horse thief was praying quietly. The man was shaking in his seat.
Kharza observed the town as the cart passed through the gate. Dewy flower petals shimmered in the early morning sun. The birds were singing in the trees. Though he hid it well, Kharza was scared-but it comforted him to see such beauty in his final hour.
A crowd had gathered in the town square. The townsfolk remained oddly quiet, save the occasional jeer and some conversing in hushed voices. Kharza thought it strange, for in Cyrodiil there would have been an angry throng pelting the captives with rotten vegetables.
I am glad there are no vegetables, Kharza thought. He almost smiled.
Then he saw them, standing on the far end of the square. Golden skin, golden armor, and haughty looks of superiority plastered across their faces.
Thalmor.
Kharza's ears flattened involuntarily. His eyes narrowed. A growl welled up in his throat.
Standing near the elves was a man wearing armor that differed from the other Imperials'. Short of stature with short, graying hair and a weathered face.
Ralof spoke. "General Tullius, the military governor. How fitting he should be here to preside over this affair. Looks like the Thalmor are here with him, too. Makes sense they'd have something to do with this. Damn their eyes..."
The cart slowed to a crawl and finally to a stop.
"Out of the cart, prisoners. Move your sorry arses!" shouted a woman wearing an officer's heavy armor.
This one is in desperate need of a bedfellow, I think, Kharza said to himself as he stepped down from the cart. This time, he did smile.
The officer woman glared at Kharza. "Is something funny, flea-bait? Do I fucking amuse you?"
"Ah, well," Kharza said, "I was just thinking-you seem quite on edge, as though you have not been bedded in many moons. Is it so?"
Fits of raucous laughter burst out amongst the ranks of the Stormcloaks. Kharza took a moment to revel in it, before the woman stepped forward and delivered a knee to his crotch. The strike robbed Kharza of breath, and he fell to his knees doubled over in pain. His headache was blinding now, but in his mind it was worth it. Several of the Stormcloaks around Kharza were beaten to the ground by the pommels of Imperial swords.
With the officer woman distracted, the horse thief decided to make a run for the gate. Some of the onlookers started to shout. The thief didn't get far before a volley of arrows found a home in his back.
"Anyone else feel like running?" the officer woman snarled.
Kharza steeled himself, and uncoiled to his feet. He saw that a man holding parchment and quill had made his way to the officer woman's side.
"Attention, prisoners," he called. "When your name is called, step forward and make your way to the block."
Names were called. The list-man made marks on his parchment. One by one, the prisoners headed toward the center of the square. Then the list-man's eyes fell on Kharza.
"You there, step forward. What's your name, prisoner?"
"Does it matter?" Kharza scoffed. He felt a hand from behind grab him by the scruff of his neck.
"Mind your tongue, worm," spat the captain. The hand on Kharza's neck shoved him forward.
"Captain," said the list-man, "what should we do? I don't see any Khajiiti names on the list."
"List be damned," replied the captain. "I'd have his head on a spike."
"By your orders, captain," sighed the list-man. He made a note on his list, then looked to Kharza. "I'm sorry. We'll see to it that your remains are returned to Elsweyr."
Probably by dumping my headless corpse off the side of a cart, Kharza thought.
Kharza made his way to the center of the square, joining the rest of the captives. General Tullius walked across the square, stopping in front of Ulfric Stormcloak. The General had a hard look in his eye when he spoke.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. I've no doubt that many here in Helgen hold you in high regard, but you are no hero of the people. A hero doesn't use a great power like the Voice to murder his High King and usurp his throne. A hero does not commit high treason against the emperor he swore to serve. Today the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"
Some members of the crowd cheered. Others hung their heads.
Kharza took in all that was before him. The square, the tower, the crowd anticipating blood, the headsman in his dark hood wielding a giant axe, the worn chopping block and the basket in front of it. Kharza had seen all these things before, but never from this side.
A woman in robes stepped onto the scene from behind the executioner. The obligatory priestess of Arkay. She raised her hands and began to speak; she was giving everyone his last rites. A man's voice cut her off in the middle.
"For the love of Talos, woman, shut your mouth and let's get this over with!"
One of the men stepped forward boldly, walking to the block with his head held high, eyes full of defiance and pride. The priestess's hands fell to her sides.
"Let's go, then!" shouted the man. "I haven't got all morning!"
The surly captain grasped the man's shoulders and buckled his knees with her boot, which she then planted firmly in the man's back and shoved him forward onto the block. The man laughed.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial," the man said. "Can you say the same?"
The captain stepped back. The executioner lifted his axe above his head.
A mighty downward swing. The sound of steel clashing against stone. The Stormcloak's head fell to the ground. Blood sprayed forth from his neck like rain in a gale. Some of the spectators cheered and cried for more blood. Others turned away or closed their eyes. Members of the crowd shouted things like "Justice!" and "Death to the Stormcloaks!"
"As fearless in death as he was in life," Kharza heard Ralof say under his breath.
Then, a strange and terrible sound came rolling in from the distance. Faint though it was, it echoed through the hills. The fur on the back of Kharza's neck stood on end. The noise sounded familiar, though he could not for the life of him determine where or when he had heard it before. There was chattering among the crowd and the soldiers. The Stormcloaks looked to the sky with chilled expressions.
"What was that?" Kharza heard one of the soldiers ask.
"It's nothing," General Tullius said gruffly. "Carry on."
The captain kicked the twitching corpse away from the block, reached into the basket and lifted up the head for all to see. She tossed the head to the ground and turned to face the prisoners once more. "Next, the cat!" she called.
Kharza's pulse quickened. He took a deep breath and took a step forward, then another, and another. Time seemed to slow as he approached the block. I suppose this is it, he thought.
That sound again, like a roar. Still distant ... but definitely closer. Kharza kept his eyes forward and did not stop.
"There it is again," said another soldier. "What is that?"
Kharza stopped in front of the captain. She wore a smirk as she spoke to him.
"I would've had you die first, if not for your foolish comrade lying over there. I hope Oblivion takes you, you worthless shit."
The heat rose in Kharza's face. He hissed angrily at the captain, causing her to flinch. She grabbed Kharza by the shoulder and punched him low in the back. The weight of her heavy bracer reinforced her fist; pain shot through Kharza's legs, and he fell to his knees in front of the block.
Worth it again, you smooth-skinned bitch, Kharza thought.
A boot in his back kicked him forward. He hit the block hard, the edge digging into his chest. He did his best to hide the pain and turned his head to face the executioner. If he was to die, he would face his killer with pride.
Behind his eyes, he prayed. Great Alkosh, merciful S'rendarr, sweetest Mother Mara ... watch over my son. The words resounded inside his head as the executioner raised his axe.
Then Kharza saw it. Black as ebony with great, terrible wings and a long tail flying over the hill faster than any creature that size possibly could.
"What on Oblivion is that?" shouted General Tullius.
The creature landed hard on top of the tower, knocking loose many stones. The ground shook, and the headsman stumbled, turning around to see what was going on. The creature's eyes fixated on Kharza, burning wickedly.
"Dragon!" shouted the soldiers. The townsfolk screamed, the soldiers shouted, the prisoners gasped, but Kharza's eyes stayed locked with the creature's. It seemed to be reveling in the chaos.
The dragon opened its mouth and let forth a short, violent roar. A great wave of energy washed over the square. Kharza was stunned when he saw the sky turn red. Surely such a thing couldn't be happening, but when the dark, angry clouds began swirling overhead and fire began to rain down from the sky, Kharza could not deny reality any longer.
The infantrymen drew their swords. Archers let fly a barrage of arrows, but nothing seemed to deter the beast. A stampede had begun in the square, and those who lost their footing were trampled by panicked spectators running for their lives. A ball of fire landed on one side of the mob, consuming many. The screams of fear and agony curdled Kharza's blood.
The dragon roared again, and a blast of air hit Kharza hard, knocking him to the side with such force that he slid along the square for some distance. The cobblestones tore his canvas tunic to shreds, and his vision went blurry once more.