Snow, as far as the eye could see. It fell from the sky in a ferocious flurry of flakes and covered the ground in a layer of shin-high frost. The temperature? Cold. The wind? Unbearable. Below, an imperial-controlled nordic village called Bruma lie in the valley.
Garric Yronson, a formal soldier of the Imperial Legion braved the Jerall Mountain pass between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, desperately wishing to return to him homeland. He planned on taking the long, northern road to Dawnstar by foot. Garric missed the breathtaking scenery of his people's home. Skyrim is filled with tall mountains and beautiful waterfalls, spectacular ice fields and amazing fields. What its people lack in gentleness, it makes up in pure beauty. Skyrim is truely an amazing, primal land.
With dark hair in his face, Garric began remember why he hates wearing helmets. He stared out into the snowy passage, emerald eyes scanning the way for danger. The young nord warrior stood in the deep mounds of snow, and sighed to himself.
"Ah, just a few more minutes and I'll be home, Skyrim." He trudged onward. As he walked he began to feel like something was warning him, telling him to hide. The snowdrifts thickened as he neared closer and closer to the the border, his gut tightening with each step. Garric had a feeling that he wouldn't be getting to Dawnstar as easily as he hoped. His armor clinked as he stopped to look around for a marker or distinct distinguisher of where he was.
Looking out through his steel plate helmet and better securing his shield to his back, he continued north.
"If I keep going this way, I should make it to Helgen in about an hour, then I can hitch a ride to Morthal, and walk over to Dawn-" He was cut off by an oh-so-inviting bolt of lightning to the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Suddenly, he was surrounded by several soldiers, Imperials by the looks of them. When he refused to cooperate, he was beaten into submission.
His vision slowly swam and faded to black as he dipped out of consciousness...