Chapter One

Yorik kept his head down. His hands were bound, he was surrounded by well armed and armored men, and he had no weapon.

"You started this war," the General of the Imperials, a man called Tullius, shouted at the bound self appointed High King of Skyrim, "plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

There was a low sound off in the distance, as if it were a distant reply on the wind. A few of the other guards and prisoners around Yorik glanced around, the prisoners nervously, the guards dressed in their shiny Imperial Plate metal curiously. Yorik paid the sound no mind, he needed to get out of here. He could not be killed like this. He had come too far and there was too much riding on his life. He fought down the usual fits of desperation he suspected that most men felt while waiting in line. He had seen someone only a moment ago, a horse thief, panic and try to make a break for the gate. The man had taken off in a full sprint only to stuffed like a pincushion in the back with arrows. Yorik wasn't even sure that the thief had known in what direction the gate was. That was the trouble with these situations.

He was used to improvising, but in situations like this there were too many factors and not enough time to plan. As good as he was with many different kinds of weapons, there were just too many soldiers and any possible allies he had were all tied up at the moment. Yorik grimaced. He had lived a long life despite his youthful appearance. All tied up, he thought to himself. How many times had he heard that one before…

"Give them their Last Rites," the Imperial Captain next to General Tullius barked.

Yorik cursed inwardly, he had gotten distracted. He was nervous and wished silently to himself that he had a drink. He had been in potentially fatal situations before, but this was different. This time he may very well be powerless to stop the blow that killed him.

A woman in a hooded priests robe stepped forward. She raised her arms reverently into the air and spoke what sounded to Yorik like a well practiced speech, "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon –"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and get this over with!" interrupted one of the rebel prisoners.

"As you wish" the priestess replied curtly.

The prisoner stepped up to the block deliberately showing his willingness to die for his cause. In Yorik's mind causes were just another thing to get killed over and the way he saw it, this man was proving him right. The rebel got on his knees as the Imperial Captain put her boot on his back and shoved his head down onto the block. As he faced death, the prisoner spoke his last words, "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" And that was that. The headsman's axe came down hard and sliced cleanly through the man's neck. His head rolled forward and tumbled into the basket placed at the opposite end of the block.

Yorik looked around biting his lip in frustration. His tongue was getting dry. There is always a way out. Damn it! Where in bloody Oblivion is it? Breathing deep he took in the situation again. He had been herded into a group of disarmed men stripped to nothing and given sack cloth for clothing. A few of them still wore a Stormcloak Cuirass, but Yorik was sure that was only because the Imperials hadn't brought enough sack cloth for the lot of them. He supposed he should be grateful they hadn't just make them go naked. The Empire was rigid like that. They didn't strip you naked, and let you freeze to death. They had to make sure you lived long enough to be executed as an example first. Yorik hated the bloody cold. These rags did little to protect him from it which caused him to eye the rest of the Stormcloak rebels who still wore uniforms. Ulfric, the leader of the Stormcloaks and supposed king of Skyrim, still wore his fur cloak and fine clothes. That struck him as odd. Why had he not been given rags to wear? Moreover, why was his execution not more public? Perhaps the Imperials were attempting to downplay his importance instead of publicly martyring him.

Surrounding the Stormcloak prisoners stood the heavily armored Imperial Soldiers spaced evenly around their captives to prevent escape. Down in front of the herd stood General Tullius of the Empire, his Imperial captain, the priestess of Arkay, and an unhelmeted soldier with a list. The last of that group was likely there to record the events of this day.

"You Imperial bastards!" cried a Stormcloak woman.

"Justice!" cried one of the onlookers.

Behind them on a horse sat an Emissary of the Thalmor, a powerful Nation with a mixed reputation. Yorik had no personal grievance with the Thalmor, despite their current aggressive behavior towards the continent of Tamriel as a whole, but the typical up turned nose of every High Elf he had ever come in contact with made him keep his distance. He rolled his eyes at her and looked around some more. Surrounding everyone were the city walls of Helgen, an Imperial controlled village that had been fortified against invasion. Along it's stone walls and throughout the town itself sprouted watch towers with bowmen on lookout for disturbances both outside and within the walls. That was everything he could see.

Perhaps if he could get closer to some of the nearby buildings and houses he could hide long enough to make an escape. He would need a distraction though. A big one. That would be very difficult. What could he do? Start a brawl? That would never work. There were too many guards and the prisoners themselves were all brothers in arms. It would just put him in a worse position.

"Next the Nord in the rags!" called the Captain.

Again there was another roar on the wind. It sounded closer this time. What he wouldn't give to just be able to turn into a werewolf and fight his way out. That of course wouldn't work either. He would just end up like the horse thief from before. This is just like that time in Kvatch... Yorik thought. Except this time there are no Daedra heckling me from the rooftops. Maybe if he got a shield away from one of the guards he could deflect and avoid the arrows more effectively. It would have to be a big one though, preferably round. Yorik looked around at the surrounding guards for a shield. Most of them carried smaller diamond shaped shields plated with steel. Good for quickly deflecting a sword or an axe in close combat, but ill suited for intercepting arrows or lances.

Yorik saw another man walk up to the block garbed in the same rags that he was. He was tall with broad shoulders, and a very muscular build. It wasn't his size that made him stand out though. Yorik had seen, and killed, bigger men than this fellow before on plenty of occasions. As the man looked out at his fellow prisoners one final time something had caught Yorik's attention. It was the big man's eyes. Yorik wasn't sure that anyone else was aware of what he saw. There was something behind them. A physical and raw intensity seemed to come from them. He could feel it as though it was like a burning heat coming in waves. It was irrelevant, however, Yorik was about to witness his untimely death after all. Still in that moment it caused Yorik to take an involuntary step backwards, right into the man standing behind him. He hadn't had a reaction like that to anyone in longer than he could remember. The prisoner behind him grunted and Yorik began to stumble. A loud crash shook the earth at his feet and Yorik found himself sprawling on the ground.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" came General Tullius's voice as chaos ensued almost immediately.

The people around Yorik scattered, fleeing in all directions. He heard shouts and screams coming from all sides. Yorik looked around panicking. Dust and dirt had been sent into the air creating a temporary fog. It was blinding for a moment, but as the dust settled he realized that he was alone. Well, not entirely, he thought. In front of Yorik was a massive, black dragon. It stood there perched with one of it's scaly talons pressing down on the back of the prisoner with the eyes that had shaken him before, pinning the man to the ground. There was still a little fog in the air, black and thick. It wasn't just dirt now. It was smoke. Somewhere, maybe everywhere, there was a fire. Trembling slightly, Yorik got to his feet as quickly as he dared. The beast didn't seem to notice, or perhaps it didn't care. It was much bigger than he was and Yorik understood that he must appear as threatening as a baby kitten to the beast. Yorik kept his eyes fixed on the dragon, never taking them away, while he slowly moved backwards one step at a time. He had to get away. Now was his chance.

"Dohvahkiin." The word was deep and primal, but was spoken matter of factly. Yorik stood still. Not at the surprise of having seen a dragon, of course. He had seen dragons before, although no one was likely to believe him. The word shook him and stirred something within his mind. He had heard the stories, but despite his own experiences he had not once believed that a dragon could speak. He had learned not to rely too heavily on old stories and folklore. Dragons were just like any other beast, he had told himself. Could he be wrong? He was sure he had heard 'Dohvahkiin,' but it sounded different in his head. The dragon raised it's head inspecting the body under it's talon. A moment later a hissing sound emanated from within it's mouth as it opened its mouth revealing sharp and dangerous fangs. Without a moment's hesitation, it clamped its jaws on the man's head and tore it from his body.

The black figure looked up at Yorik now, eyes trained on his glowing red even in the daylight. The sky was growing darker, redder as if at twilight. Something was happening. Yorik decided that the sky was the least of his problems. He took his opportunity to run, hoping that wherever he ended up had a barrel of ale with his name on it.