Prologue – New Beginnings

Elgar

206 4th era.

The jolt of the rickety carriage going over another bump woke Elgar from his dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes but the carriage was too dark for him to make out anything. The only noises he could hear were the steady beat of the horses' hooves clinking against the cobble road outside, the heavy breathing of ten sleeping men and the clank of the chains that bound them.

He slowly sat up, trying to make as little noise as possible. His legs complained about the stiffness in this thighs and his torso protested from all the bruises. It was good thing that he couldn't see anything, otherwise he would have felt nausea at the sight of his yellow and purple skin. His whole body shivered from a strong, cold blast of wind. His eyes flickered up to the minute hole that let in air for the prisoners. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he realised that there was a weak shaft of moonlight streaking out of the hole in a beam of sickly white light. The light hit the wall close to his head.

He twisted slightly, allowing him to see the moon. The white disc covered the entire hole leaving nothing but the weak lunar light. He sat entranced by its light, thinking out what it must be like to hang in the sky like that, free from chains that could bind you, soaring far above. Suddenly someone near him started coughing loudly.

His head snapped round to see the man's entire body convulsing with every cough. It was a while before Elgar recognised him. His name was Trengil, Elgar's father had had dealings with him in the past. He was at least two decades out of his prime, but his hair had only one or two streaks of grey, making him look younger. Even so his body was getting weaker.

Elgar had only been alive for thirteen years, but leaving as a thief had shown him the slums of cities where diseases ran rampant. This was an example of the same disease he had seen on hundreds of other men and women. Few had been able to laugh about it after. As the body got older, the lungs became corrupted, making breathing harder.

Trengil's body was shaking so much that Elgar reached over and tried to hold him down. Even though the nord was slowly dying, he was still a lot stronger than Elgar: he began to feel a slight burn build in his arms. Elgar started to hum a quiet lullaby, in an attempt to soothe both Trengil and his sore muscles.

It was a slow tune that only had ten notes, repeated over and over. It was melody he had learnt somewhere, one that he seemed to always of known. He felt Trengil convulsions become gradually weaker, until Elgar could finally let go, what felt like half of an hour later.

He sat back and looked round. It seemed that two of the men had woken and now were sitting starring into the darkness, their eyes devoid of any emotion. He'd seen those eyes before; they were the eyes of men sent to the block. Resignation and indifference.

He could feel a slight sheen of sweat over his fore head, and his armpits were soaked. It wasn't like he was unfit, growing up on the streets made him able to last without food for days at a time, but he was definitely weaker than most, and especially weaker than his fellow nords. He had met nine year old bosmer girls with more upper body muscle definition.

His long black hair was plastered on his forehead, with the ends of his fringe hanging over his green eyes. Just another thing making him different. When people thought of a young nord man they expected a big barrel-chested, blonde, blue-eyed heart throb: not a scrawny, black haired and green eyed child.

However that's what gave him the edge when it came to picking pockets. Big heart throbs would be too easily noticed, while he could slip in and out of shadows with ease. However that skill had failed him this time.

The carriage stopped and the rest of the other prisoners awoke. Furis, Elgar's adopted father for as long as he could remember, stirred next to him and looked around. Furis was big. Very big. So big it seemed like a joke when it was suggested that he was a pick pocket. But he'd taught Elgar everything he knew about the shadows and how to use them to his own monetary gain.

The doors opened and two armed men stepped in. They made their way round unlocking each prisoner and kicking them out before they had the chance to steal their weapons. The outside was lighter maybe, but not better.

There were five armed men with weapons ranging from daggers to warhammers. And a khajiit. A rather big khajiit. He had no weapons or armour but he was definitely the leader. He stood well over the others, but what caught Elgar's eye was the scar that ran over his left eye, leaving it milky. He had seen wounds like that before, probably form some bestial encounter of some sort

As soon as they were all out of the carriage and on their knees, the khajiit spoke. His voice was slurred with a heavy elsweyr accent but it was still discernible.

"Welcome gentleman. I hope you had a pleasant trip," At this some of the armed men chuckled with grim humour. The khajiit had a way of speaking that made everything he said seem so cruel and harsh, while remaining civil and smooth. "We have a rather interesting proposition for you today. A way for you to repay society for all that you leeches have stolen. If you look behind you, you'll see a very nice cave."

"So what?" It was Trengil. "You want us to go dig in a mine?"

"Precisely," a smile tugged and the corner of the khajiit's mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Screw you cat man." Trengil replied standing and spitting in the khajiit's face. Most of the prisoner didn't even notice, some were staring down, apathetic to what was happening. The guards however looked angry. One man drew his sword but the khajiit was faster. He punched straight through Trengil's stomach, his blood soaked fist coming out of his back.

The khajiit shook his arm and Trengil's dead corpse fell to the floor. He wiped the spit from his face with his other hand and asked, "Does anyone else have any questions?"