Prologue

Year 369 of the First Era

The Jarl's Quaters

Winterhold

Skyrim

Jarl Hanse carefully shrugged on the weathered mammoth fur shawl, tying together the ancient good buckle at the front that proudly bore the crest of Winterhold. He was a tall, slender man with soft features and pale skin that brought out the brightness of his piercing blue eyes and made him seem almost frail. It is true, he was ageing, but he had lost very little of the strength of his youth that had made his foes cower before him. He took a moment to look out of the only, tiny window in his quarters. Winterhold spread out before him majestically, light shining of the city's deep, grey stone like it were water. It was beautiful, and the Jarl was more than proud to be in charge of the city, and it's people. He hoped it would never change.

There was a knock on solid wood. Hanse took a great gulp of air, and held it deep within his lungs. Could this be it? Could this be the news he had been waiting to here for so long?

Carefully, slowly, he made his way to the door.

A few weeks previously, Skyrim's High King, Borgas, had been murdered by a group of Wood Elves who had turned themselves into vicious, shapeshifting beasts and ravaged the Blue Palace in Solitude. With no heirs to the throne, Skyrim was left without a king until the province's aristocracy could collectively decide who should ascend to the throne. It was a long process, full of disagreement and treachery, but, at last, a decision had been made.

"What news, Rimen?" Jarl Hanse asked the thin, wiry man who had stood behind the door. The Jarl's voice was deep and booming, and did nothing to settle the nerves of the jumpy steward.

Rimen looked anywhere but at Hanse and, ringing his hands, said, "A decision has been made, my lord." He paused and gave a nervous, frantic sort of laugh. "They won't tell me their decision, sir. They said they would only reveal who is to become king when the Jarls have all convened at the College." Another pause. Rimen seemed to focus intently on his feet. "Something about 'mutual territory'..." Another nervous laugh.

Hanse's face seemed set as a mask of calm. "'Mutual territory,'" he repeated. A small smirk spread across his soft features. "They must think some of the other Jarls will be annoyed with my appointment. As if they would dare attempt anything!" He looked at Rimen casually with his striking blue eyes. "Have an escort of guards meet me in the main chamber; one can never be too careful.

With four guards surrounding him, Jarl Hanse made his way over the icy streets of the city and into the towering structure that was the College of Winterhold. The College had been the centre of life in Winterhold since its founding and was the reason many braved the extreme colds that northern Skyrim brought. There was no finer academy of magic in all of Skyrim, and it made Winterhold one of the greatest of cities in all of Tamriel, a fact Hanse was proud of.

There was a long raised bridge leading to the College itself that spanned across a large portion of the northern districts of the city. Hanse and his escort went along carefully, in single file. The extreme cold made this relatively thin bridge dangerous when crossing; it had been the case on more than one occasion that some poor Mage lost his footing on a patch of ice and went tumbling down onto the dark streets beneath. Nobody could survive a fall like that.

This time, however, no such incident occurred. Within a few minutes, Hanse and his men were standing safely in the courtyard of the the College (an open roofed but quite sheltered space) awaiting the Keeper of the College to permit them entrance. This was one of the things Hanse disliked about the College. They kept very much to themselves, and despised outsiders. He didn't mind admitting that leaving a group of people with that much power to their own devices unnerved him. He knew, however, that when he was High King he would make sure that changed.

The keeper did not take long. It was a bitterly cold night on the northernmost shores of Skyrim and all of the part were grateful to get inside, into the magical warmth of the College that seemed to exude from the walls themselves. Through the gilded metal of the gate that barred the entrance to the Hall of Elements to all those unworthy talking could be heard. Quite, forced chit-chat; a necessity of any such meeting. The Jarl took of his shawl, passed it to one of the guards and made his way into the Hall itself. The faint blue fire that sat in indents in the walls made the shadows look longer, more distorted, and seems only to add more shadow than they banished.

The congregation fell silent as soon as Hanse strutted into the chamber. They all seemed to revere him. They new his rightful place.

On top of the eight other Jarls all gathered around a mysterious pool of glowing blue goo, there were twenty-or-so of Skyrim best and brightest; the aristocracy. Hanse nodded curtly to as many of them as he could manage until he came to a standstill as close to the centre of Hall as he could manage. He spread his arms wide, spun lightly on his toes and beamed at the crowd. "My friends!" he declared, "How wonderful it is to see you all again, even if it is such a sad sequence of events that has brought us all here! But perhaps the past should remain behind us? I hear that a decision has been made?"

A Breton wearing fur lined, midnight blue robes stepped out of the crowd and bowed his head towards the Jarl of Winterhold. "It has been." He had a gruff, wispy voice that made hims one a lot older than he really was. Again, Hanse smiled.

"In which case, perhaps you'd do the honours, Archmage!" Hanse's voice was one of pure jubilation. It was about to happen. He was about to become the greatest ruler in Skyrim's history.

The Archmage nodded. With a wave of his gloved hand, the Jagged Crown made of the bones and teeth of the most ferocious dragon ever slain, worn by all the High Kings and Queens of Skyrim, appeared, floating above the pool of blue goo. There were a few gasps as it materialised, and then nothing but a collective silence. All eyes were were on the Archmage.

"There has been much deliberation in this matter," he began, "and a decision has been reached. Today, one of the Jarls standing amongst us will become the new High King or Queen of Skyrim, and this beloved province will enter a new age of glory and prosperity. And the person who shall lead us into this new age," he looked around the room, "is, by unified agreement... Saarnal Rorikstead, Jarl of Markarth!"

The smile disappeared from Hanse's face quicker than the average heartbeat. Something must be wrong. This must be a joke, it cannot be possible. And yet no one seemed to be laughing. He was serious. They were serious. This was not right.

"What is this!" His voice almost reached a scream. How could this be happening? "How dare you deny me my right!"

Silence fell again. All eyes were locked onto Hanse. His face had changed. What had been a facade of calm was now a contortion of anger. His feature looked sharper, longer, and his eyes were no longer striking. They were wild; mad.

"Hanse, this is no time for an outburst!" The Archmage went right up to him so that the two were almost nose to nose. Hanse shook his head.

"You will not deny me this!" he hissed, "You will not deny me my right!" With unrivalled speed and grace, he reached into the folds of his clothing, pulled out an ornate knife and stabbed the Archmage, piercing his heart. The Archmage gasped in surprise and grasped at Hanse's shoulder before falling to the ground, dead.

The crowd stood their, frozen in place by shock. Hanse raised the knife, and spoke with forced calm. "I will be High King. And none of you will stop me!"

A few of the crowd unsheathed their weapons and pointed them at Hanse, declaring that they wouldn't stand down to such a barbarian. Hanse merely smiled, raised his hand and signalled to his guards. They charged forward, and attacked without mercy.