The jostling of the carriage as it bumped over the cobblestone road brought the tiger-patterned Khajiit out of the realm of blissful unconsciousness back to the harsh, cold reality that was Skyrim. He groaned and shook his head to clear out the cobwebs when a Nord voice caught his attention.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us." The speaker was blond and wore a cuirass of leather and bronze scales covered on the back and over the shoulders with blue cloth; a sheet of chain mail ran about halfway down his upper arms. He bore a rather toned build; not as much as the Khajiit, but still toned.

"Actually, I'd been tracking that band of Imperials for days," the cat-man replied as he pushed his back against the side of the wagon to pop the stiffened vertebra. He then realized that a familiar weight was not against his side. He looked and shouted in shock, "My sword!"

"Aye, we all had our swords taken away when they captured us."

"You don't understand. That sword was in my family for nearly six generations, and it carried my ancestor through the Oblivion Crisis."

"Your family was involved in the Crisis?" a new voice intruded. This Nord was different. Unlike the warrior in front of the Khajiit, his muscle tone was below average. And the way he carried himself…he wasn't any kind of warrior; he seemed more of a thief or a ne'er-do-well rogue.

"Yes, thief. In Cyrodiil. My three-times-great-grandfather was the Champion of Cyrodiil." That was when he noticed the fourth man in the cart. He was gagged, and yet his clothing was of the highest quality. None of the clothiers in Elsweyr could compete. Turning back to the warrior, the Khajiit asked, "Who is he?"

"He is Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim," the blond replied with pride in his voice.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But, if they've captured you…oh Gods, where are they taking us?" the thief whined.

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," the warrior said solemnly.

The cat nodded with equal solemnity. Despite being a native of Elsweyr, he knew many of the Nord traditions, including their afterlife, Sovngarde. As none of the prisoners had anything to talk about for a few minutes, he decided to look up and down the wagon train. There was nothing interesting until he focused on the head of the column. There was an older Imperial wearing the armor of a Legion General. Flanking him was a Thalmor. Unbidden, a growl rose in his throat.

It was then, as an Imperial gatehouse and a village beyond it came into view, that conversation resumed in the cart. "Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?"

"What do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"Rorikstead. I'm – I'm from Rorikstead."

"And what about you, Khajiit?"

The cat-man pondered for a bit. He had been to so many places that he didn't really have a home, anymore. Finally, he answered slowly, "I was born in Rimmen, but the last place I called home was Anvil. I'd inherited Benirus Manor there. I ended up selling it to pay for my passage to the border."

The convoy neared the fort at that moment, and a cry from atop the gatehouse caught the prisoners' attention. "General Tullius, sir, the Headsman is waiting."

"Good, let's get this over with," the General he'd spotted earlier replied agitatedly before he peeled off from the main column.

"Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor. And the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves; I bet they had something to do with this," the Stormcloak stated with a sneer.

"I agree."

But the blond warrior was already miles and years away. "This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." He then emitted a mirthless chuckle. "Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Except for the thief's muttered prayers, they lapsed into silence again. Then the Khajiit's sharp hearing caught the questions of a boy, whom he then turned his head to look at. "Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?"

His father didn't answer the questions. Instead, he encouraged, "You need to go inside, little cub."

"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."

The encouragement became an order. "Inside the house. Now."

Grudgingly, the boy got up and walked into his family's house. "Yes, Papa." Good. Spare him these horrors. He is too young to experience them, the cat-man thought as he nodded at the father.

As the carriage slowed to a halt near Helgen's North Gate, so did the thief's prayers. "Why are we stopping?" he asked, although the frantic tone in his voice betrayed the fact that he, and everyone else, knew the answer to that question.

Still, the Stormcloak provided the answer. "Why do you think? End of the line." A few seconds later, the steps mounted on the back of the wagon dropped. Looking directly at the Khajiit, the blond added, "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us." The cat simply nodded and began to stand up, his digitigrade legs stiff from sitting for so long.

"No! Wait! We're not rebels!" the thief pleaded as the Stormcloak soldier shoved him to his feet.

"Face your death with some courage, thief."

He still refused to accept his fate. "No, you've got to tell them. We weren't with you! This is a mistake."

However, the Khajiit had ceased paying attention to the thief and had, instead, focused on a new figure that had stepped in front of the group of prisoners. She was an Imperial Legion officer, as displayed by her somewhat ornate steel armor, but it was what was on her hip that caught his attention the most. Mounted there was an ornate, and ancient, ebony longsword, and he knew that, were its blade showing, one would see rivulets of magical fire flowing throughout it. That was the sword his ancestor had used for many years before passing it down through the generations. It was the blade he had just lost. And he seethed at the fact that she was wearing it so proudly.

"Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time," she barked.

"Empire loves their damned lists."

The man who had been riding at the rear of the column was the one holding the list and calling out the names for their cart. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

As he stepped away, the Stormcloak soldier stated, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

"Ralof of Riverwood." The blond soldier stepped away. "Lokir of Rorikstead."

The thief made one last impassioned plea, and then bolted when he realized that the Imperials were not going to listen. "You're not going to kill me!" he shouted…an instant before an arrow impaled the base of his skull. He was dead before he even hit the ground.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the female Officer asked rhetorically.

The younger soldier then took in the Khajiit's presence for the first time. "Wait, you, step forward." Once the cat did, he continued, "Who are you?"

"I am Lejule, seventy-seventh of the Wulfson line. Born in Rimmen, but a native of all of Tamriel."

"You with one of the trade caravans, Khajiit? Your kind always seems to find trouble," the Nord Legionnaire muttered as he jotted down the relevant information in his book. He then turned to the officer and asked, "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."

"Forget the list, he goes to the block."

The soldier hesitated before replying, "By your orders, Captain." He turned back to Lejule. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Elsweyr." He truly sounded remorseful. "Follow the Captain, prisoner."

"Well, I'll put in a good word for you with the gods," the Khajiit warrior replied as he stepped toward the crowd of Stormcloak prisoners.

When he arrived, General Tullius was standing in front of Ulfric, a hand on the hilt of his Imperial blade. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero does not use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." The gagged leader gave a muffled growl in reply, and Tullius' tone rose from matter-of-fact to angry, yet triumphant. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

It appeared that he would have continued, but a roar of a kind unknown to Lejule, and apparently everyone present, pealed through the valley. "What was that?" the list-bearer asked, uncertainty in his voice.

"It's nothing. Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," the Captain replied with a salute.

Brown-noser, Lejule thought.

"Give them their last rites," she ordered a priestess.

"As we commend your souls to Atherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon ye–"

"Oh, for the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with," a flame-haired Stormcloak interrupted as he stepped up to the executioner's block.

"As you wish," the priestess conceded.

Kneeling before the block, the redhead urged, "Come on, I haven't got all morning!" As the Captain planted her armored boot between his shoulder blades and forced him to lay his cheek on the block, he continued, "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" Then the headsman's axe came down and the soldier's head fell into the basket set at the base of the block.

There was a general clamor from both sides about the morality of the executions, including Ralof stating solemnly, "As fearless in death as he was in life."

Then the Captain's voice rose above it all. "Next, the Cat!"

Lejule took a half-step forward, but then he froze as the roar reverberated again, closer this time. "There it is again."

The Captain, however, masked her fear of it with impatience. "I said. Next. Prisoner!"

The list-man cringed before requesting, "To the block, prisoner, nice and easy."

The Khajiit stepped forward proudly, having accepted death, embracing it, even. However, he refused to kneel until the Captain kicked the back of his knees and pushed him down. He still resisted as her heavy boot pressed between his shoulders until she added her fist and shoved his cheek onto the block. Unlike the Nord, he gave no last defiant words, as he decided to deny the Imperials the satisfaction. However, as the headsman raised his axe, a black, and strangely familiar, shape flew out from behind the Throat of the World.

General Tullius gave voice to Lejule's thought. "What in Oblivion is that?!"

"Sentries, what do you see?" the Captain demanded

Before anyone could answer, the creature landed on top of the tower the Khajiit, and almost everyone else, was looking at, the impact knocking the headsman off balance.

"Dragon!" some female shouted.

The executioner recovered, turned around, and was knocked off balance again when a loud thunderclap-like noise issued from the dragon's mouth. Instantly, the sky turned an angry shade of red and flaming rocks began raining down. One of them buried the unfortunate headsman and knocked Lejule down off the block.

It took him a few moments to re-gather his wits, but, when he did, Ralof was standing before him, wrists unbound, shouting, "Come on! The gods won't give us another chance." Then he began running for another tower, the cat following. Once the black-striped, orange felinoid dove through the door, the Stormcloak bolted it shut. The Khajiit picked himself up and looked back toward Ralof, who, in turn, was looking toward Ulfric, whose gag had come off at some point. "Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages," the Stormcloak leader answered in a surprisingly calm voice. An explosion rocked the tower and he continued, "We have to get out of here, now!"

"Right. Up the stairs!" Ralof shouted back, but the cat was several steps ahead of him – literally.

He didn't look back to see if anyone was following his example, but a sound from outside made him stop just short of the next landing, where another pair of Stormcloak soldiers were milling about. That sound proved to be the dragon, as its head smashed through the wall. The flying stones crushed one soldier while its flame breath turned the other into a smoking cinder. Surprisingly, as the dragon breathed its flame, the Khajiit's sensitive ears could pick out either two or three words (the second and third syllable were strung too closely together to be sure): "Yol," and either "Torshul" or "Tor" and "Shul."

A moment later, the dragon left to terrorize another part of Helgen, and Ralof crept over to the opening. "There! The inn. Jump!"

As before, Lejule was already ahead of his thoughts, sailing through and throwing his arms forward to give him a little more momentum. He landed with his right foot first, then his left a little in front of it, and then followed though by rolling shoulder first. He felt the fur of his tail singe against the burning thatch of the building's roof. Putting that out of his mind, he saw where the inn's stairway had collapsed, a large hole leading directly to the open doorway.

He dashed through and almost immediately came upon a pair of Imperial soldiers, one of whom was the list-bearer, and the young boy from earlier. The boy's parents were nowhere to be seen. The list-man was directing the boy, named Haming, to get to cover. Then he noticed the Khajiit. "Still alive, prisoner? Stay close to me if you wish to stay that way!" Nodding, the cat began to follow the Legionnaire. Before leaving, the Nord Legionnaire gave one last order to a soldier in iron plate armor. "Gonnar, stay with Haming. I need to find Tullius and join the defense."

As the pair left, Gonnar replied, "Gods guide you, Hadvar."

Hadvar and Lejule crossed the street and into an alley. "Stay close to the wall!"

As they did, the dragon landed on top of the wall, its wing touching the ground so close in front of Lejule that he held his breath for fear that it would feel the slight breeze on its skin, and blasted a group of Imperial soldiers. When it flew away again, the pair resumed their escape, weaving between flustered archers and battlemages who were pointing out frantically that their attacks were having no effect on the dragon.

When they reached the keep, they spotted a familiar face. "Ralof, you damned traitor! Out of my way!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar, and you're not stopping us this time!"

"Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

With that each soldier darted for one of the two entrances to the keep. After half a second's hesitation to apologize to Hadvar, Lejule followed Ralof, as neither was a friend of the Empire. Once inside, Ralof knelt by the corpse of a slain Stormcloak soldier and promised, "We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother." He turned back to the cat-man and continued, "Looks like we're the only ones who made it." The Khajiit simply bowed his head in solemn acknowledgement. "Here. Let's see if we can get those bindings off," the Stormcloak added as he pulled a small dagger from his boot.

A quick cut and the ropes fell away. The cat rubbed his wrists and noted that there was a noticeable ring in the fur where the bindings had rubbed away about half the hairs. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." He gestured to a slain Stormcloak and continued, "Take Gunjar's gear. He has no more use of it."

Uttering a small prayer, Lejule pulled off the dead soldier's armor, consisting of a leather-scale cuirass and a set of thick fur boots (the latter of which didn't fit his Khajiit leg structure), and his weapon, an iron war axe. The axe was old, chipped, and not as well balanced as a sword, and he would have preferred to wear some heavy plate armor, but those would have to do.

"Damn. It's locked," Ralof muttered as he tried a door. "Let's check that one." Before they could, they both heard voices coming down the corridor behind it. One of them made the Khajiit's blood boil; it belonged to the Captain. As the voices approached, the two enemies of the Empire crouched down on either side of the door.

"Hurry up and get this door open!" There was the sound of keys jangling followed by one of them sliding into the lock. Lejule tightened his grip on the axe's handle and commenced a short breath meditation to prepare himself for the coming combat.

The bar door opened and two Imperial soldiers came in. In the second or so of their shock, Lejule appraised his opponents. One was the Captain, as his ears had told him already, while the other was a raw recruit. Ralof set upon the recruit, leaving the Captain for the Khajiit to deal with. "Ready for a rematch, 'Captain?'"

"You're so eager to die? Just after cheating it once today? It'll be my pleasure," she stated as she drew the ancient blade.

The two combatants started circling each other, while Ralof finished off his opponent. When the Nord turned to attack the Captain, Lejule stated, "No. This is my fight."

"Aw, that would have almost made it even," the Imperial taunted. Then she lunged with the ebony blade.

Almost without effort, the cat spun out of the way and brought his axe around to try and behead the Captain.

She blocked the blow with her shield and attempted to carve into the Khajiit's side with the sword.

He ducked under the swing, grabbed her wrist, and brought the iron blade crashing down onto her elbow. While the armor held and prevented her from losing her arm, there was a satisfying crunch as the bone underneath gave way.

With her arm disabled, the old blade fell out of her grasp and clattered on the ground. The cat-man kicked her in the chest to disorient her further while he reclaimed his family heirloom. Wasting neither time nor words, he knocked away her helmet with the axe and beheaded her with the sword. Flames leapt from both sides of the wound as her body slumped to the ground.

Dropping the axe, Lejule caressed the black metal of his old family sword. "The Claw of Akatosh. Forged over two centuries ago by order of the Nerevarine and enchanted by the Champion of Cyrodiil himself after becoming Arch-Mage of the Mages Guild using the soul of a slain Dremora."

He then proceeded to strip the Captain's equipment, using the axe to pound flat, and then the ebony blade to shave smooth, the "female modifications" to the armor's chest. With a little additional pounding, the chest plate fit adequately to his larger frame.

Again, the boots didn't fit, but he sliced off the shin plates to provide some protection for his legs, trimming them in order to fit.

He was most pleased at the fact that only a little adjustment of the leather straps was required to ensure that the steel bracers fit. And that her helmet also fit with very minor adjustment. Her shield, unfortunately, was broken.

He then noticed a slight bulge in the satchel attached to the armor's belt and opened it up to check. What he saw made him quite happy. The old book that detailed the location of the first Wulfson's tomb was inside, apparently being kept as a souvenir by the Captain. However, unless she knew Ta'agra and a separate runic language, she would never have understood what was written within.

Finally, he strapped the Claw's scabbard to the belt and slid the blade home. "Let's get out of here."