Cracked lines of blue electrified the black sky. Stinging rain pelted Damian Weylin's head and shoulders as he trudged along the cobblestones. The temperature would soon plummet as the mild climate of the Whiterun Hold morphed into the harshness of The Pale.
Life as a courier, while adventurous, was never easy. Those words of his father rang all too well in his mind. It was not the occupation his father had wanted for him, but the exploration and adventure that the job entailed enticed him. Damian was a procrastinator, however, which brought him much trouble on the job. Putting his latest deliveries off until the last minute, three letters still had to be transported in less than a week, with each letter being in a different hold.
Following the events surrounding the Dragonborn fifteen years prior, Skyrim set up headquarters in each hold where letters and gifts were taken to be delivered. This revolutionized the way common citizens relayed personal messages and gifts to one another. Unfortunately for Damian, this meant deadlines had to be met and he had to answer to superiors. His boss would have his head if he failed to complete his assignment again.
As he neared an intersection of two main roads, he noticed a caravan approaching from the West. Something was off though; this caravan was enormous in size and length…
Suddenly Damian hit the ground, deafened, as fire and smoke flooded the atmosphere. A massive plume surrounded the area while faint screams of terror and death filled the night air. As Damian slowly rose to his feet, the immense devastation around him became evident. Surviving Nobles emerged from the fire and destruction as the perpetrators revealed themselves violently. Arrows struck down men and women left and right, while the guards met their fate at the edge of a Forsworn sword. This shouldn't be happening, Damian remembered seeing a sizable amount of soldiers guarding the caravan earlier.
This had to be a royal caravan, carrying a large number of nobles and their families across Skyrim. Nobles took leisurely journeys from time to time, but this was different. Something urgent had to be transpiring for this many of Skyrim's royalty to be venturing into The Pale. Unfolding before his eyes was more than a typical bandit raid on civilians; this was a planned assault, carried out by highly skilled warriors.
Rushing behind the cover of a rock to avoid detection, a heart-wrenching sight stopped Damian in his tracks. Children were fleeing in terror as their relatives and elders were being slaughtered before their eyes. Damian had to do something. He took hold of a steel sword nearby and surveyed the ensuing chaos. The explosion had to have come from the mage, who was still shooting fireballs at the unarmed Nords.
Damian made his way silently around the chaos towards the mage, attempting to remain hidden. As his pace quickened, a quick strike ignited his back in agony. He lay helpless as a Forsworn stood over him, sword raised. Awaiting a sword to the chest, Damian cringed. Instead of feeling pain however, Damian heard a shout and a thud as the Forsworn crumpled to the ground, a black arrow protruding from his back.
The mage ceased firing. "Retreat! Take the children as hostages!" Forsworn were dropping like flies as the mage confronted the assailant, providing an escape route for the remaining soldiers and their hostages. The mage staggered back, an arrow lodged in his shoulder. "This isn't over!" the mage shouted, vanishing from sight.
Excruciating pain coursed down Damian's back as his vision blurred. Among the fire and smoke emerged a hooded figure. The last thing he saw was a pair of piercing beady eyes as he allowed the darkness to take him.
