Geryn looked up at the border gate that he was swiftly approaching, which blocked his way from Cyrodiil to Skyrim. He had previously lived in the Imperial City, but after months of trying to enjoy a decent life and practice his magic in peace in the ruin of a city, he had decided that it was pointless. The Great War had ravaged the capital of The Empire, leaving it a dreary old shadow of its former, beautiful and majestic self. Geryn sighed. He had been born and raised in that city, and wasn't old enough to remember the Great War, so the dank old ruin was really all he had ever known. His parents had done their best to teach him restoration and alteration magic, but the combination of Thalmor soldiers who snuffed out anyone who posed them a threat and the lack of resources had meant that his education had been very restricted. He would have applied for the Mage's Guild of Cyrodiil, but the organisation had long since become much more concerned with politics than anything else, which was why he was heading for Skyrim, as he had heard that their place of learning magic, The College of Winterhold, had no such concerns.
He was a short, skinny Breton, with a head of thick dark brown hair that just about reached his eyes, which were greenish brown. His face was usually clean shaven, but today was slightly fuzzy as he had been travelling the Cyrodiilic countryside for a good few days. He wore a simple brown tunic and a beige cowl, and had a satchel slung over his shoulder, which contained his money and a meagre amount of alchemical supplies, along with some dwindling food rations.
A rain drop fell on Geryn's nose. He looked up and saw that the sun was blocked out by a dull grey veil of clouds, so pulled his cowl over his head. As he reached the gate, he noticed two things. Firstly, nobody was watching the gate, which was extremely unusual given the people of Skyrim's severe dislike of outsiders. Secondly, he saw that the gate had been left ever so slightly open, and walked up to it. After checking for watchers in all directions several times, Geryn slipped through the gate and briskly walked down the road, making sure to put as much distance as possible between him and the illegally passed border.
After several minutes of walking, Geryn began to hear something unusual. Groaning. Very pained, near agonised groaning. It was only faint, but Geryn could tell that he wasn't to far away and began jogging towards where he could hear the sound was coming from. He kept following it, and the closer he got the more signs of a skirmish he saw. Discarded weapons, splatters of blood, arrows stuck in the ground. He even saw several bodies, of both Imperial soldiers and of soldiers in a blue tunic that he didn't recognise. When he finally reached the source of the noise, he found a gruesome scene laid out in front of him. It was a large, bulky Nord, wearing that unfamiliar blue tunic and lying in a pool of his own blood. He was in the foetal position, with one hand rapped over his head and the other one covered in fresh blood, clutching his stomach. He was extremely pale, and Geryn swore before crouching next to him and preparing a basic healing spell.
Geryn put a hand on the man's shoulder, and leaned in close. "You look like you need some help."
The man slightly turned his head towards Geryn, his long red hair and thick beard obscuring his face somewhat. "Please," The man said faintly, his thick Nordic accent making him sound a little less helpless. "Help..."
"Don't worry," Reassured Geryn "I'm a healer. I'm here to help."
"A... healer?" The man sounded relieved. "Thank Ysmir..."
"Yes, a healer. I can help you, but only if you move that arm." He prayed that the man would cooperate, rather than display the stubbornness typical to the Nords of Skyrim.
The man spoke weakly. "A... Alright. Please... hurry... hurts..." He moved his arm away, much to Geryn's relief. However, relief turned to horror when he saw the wound. As the man moved his arm away, intestines and what looked like an endless stream of blood followed it away from the man's stomach.
Geryn tried to hide his horror so as not to scare the man. "Well... right, let's get started then..." He put his hand to the wound and began casting the healing spell, obscuring it in a sea of golden light. The sound of the organs regenerating and returning to the Nord's body was sickening, and the man screamed at the pain it caused. Once the spell was over, Geryn moved his hand away and was awarded with nothing but a healthy, if a bit pale, stomach and a torn tunic.
The Nord sighed with relief. "Thank you, stranger," He shakily got to his feet. "I'm certain I wouldn't have made it for much longer had you not come along. I'm forever in your debt!"
Geryn grinned. "Well don't worry, you owe me nothing." Suddenly he grew very serious and looked at the Nord with concern on his face. "Who did this?" He enquired. "Imperial soldiers?"
The man nodded grimly. "Aye, an imperial soldier sliced me right across the belly." He sounded regretful, and sighed. "It was my own fault, I foolishly joined up with the stormcloaks, believing their cause true and just, but..."
"Not anymore?"
"No. I was assigned to Ulfric's guard, and the man's an arrogant fool if I ever saw one. I used to look up to him, but since meeting him.."
"Forgive my ignorance, but I'm not from Skyrim. Who's Ulfric?"
"Gods, man! Who's Ulfric? Why, he's the man killed High-King Torygg and started this Gods-forsaken war! How long have you been in Skyrim?"
"A few minutes." Replied Geryn. He decided to inquire further. "So these Stormcloaks, they're some sort of rebellion?"
"You could say that. I used to follow them, to agree with their hatred for the Empire but now... I'm not so sure."
"Right." Geryn decided that he'd heard enough. "I'm Geryn, by the way." He held out his hand.
"Joric." The man shook Geryn's out-stretched hand. "Shall we leave this place? I'm getting tired of staying in one place."
"Good idea." Geryn turned and walked north up the road with Joric, who had found a discarded battle axe and was carrying it in one hand. "We should head for Falkreath." Joric suggested. "It's a small town, not far from here. It's under Imperial rule but I doubt I'll be recognised. Not that I ever want to return to the Stormcloaks. They can go to Oblivion for all I care."
"Right." Geryn looked ahead and saw that they were on top of a hill, one that looked out across an epic expanse of pine trees with a few gaps which sprouted huge snow-capped mountains. "So which way is that?"
"North west of here, I think." Joric sped up slightly. "Come on. We'll need to pick up the pace if we want to reach civilisation before dark." Geryn nodded, and they headed along the road and towards the Pine Forest.