The four prisoners rode in the prison caravan, their teeth rattling in their skulls in the bumpy carriage. A farmer, lumberjack, jarl, and -unbeknownst to all others- an international criminal with a bounty worth five million septims rode side by side. She was an Imperial woman by the name of Valencia Agrivicci. The Imperial City knew her better as The Savvy Merchant, a woman who had escaped the prison, dug through the sewers, and stolen an Elder Scroll. That had been her finale in Cyrodil.
She had fled from there to Valenwood, from Valenwood to Elsweyer, and from Elsweyer to The Summerset Isle. There she had made quite a mess, including a rather violent run-in with some Psijic monks. From there she had gone to High Rock, and from High Rock to Hammerfell. At about that time the War had begun, and she was soon little more than a forgotten footnote, which worked all the better for her. Had it not been for a Border Patrol in Falkreath, she would have made it to Morrowind, to loot the Fallen City. Luckily, the Nordic Imperials' ardor in catching her was surpassed only by their incompetence as law-enforcers.
She looked onward towards an obvious military outpost. "Helgen," the soldiers called it, but "Hellhole," was by far more accurate in her mind. It was some backwater town barracked by the desperate Imperial forces before the White Gold Concordat, and nothing more. Instead of emulating her observational nature, the others around her spoke of ridiculous things. Apparently there was some pathetic fight between idiot Nords and other idiot Nords. For the life of her, she couldn't remember why the Imperials hadn't put them down years ago. Across her sat this jarl (Ulfric Stormcloak, they'd said?) with a bound mouth. He was heading this rebellion, apparently, but the bit intrigued her, since he had it exclusively. She turned to ask her captors about it, playing the part of a senile old woman. This was an act she'd been using since she left High Rock.
"Excuse me, dearie, but where am I? And why are my hands bound? And why is that man gagged?" She tried to work in as much innocence as possible. The guard whispered something to the driver, and who retorted with a shrug. The guard turned around to face her. His ragged moustache complimented his foul breath.
"You were caught tresspassin' on the border. The cap'n said to take you in. That man is Stormcloak, and they say he can use spoken magics. Cap'n says he used it to kill the king. Though I don't why I'm tellin' you this, you crazy old bat," he scratched his scraggly chin; "You'll probably forget it in a minute or two." Then he turned back around, commenting to his friend that he should visit a barber in the barracks.
This was not good. Rebel militias and mutinous jarls did not go to prison. They were too dangerous. Mutinous jarls with extraordinary powers were no good, either. In fact, they tended to only be good dead. And that meant that this was no military outpost. No, a powerful man and his army are too dangerous to be left alive: she was being taken with them to an execution ground. So then, escape had to be her principle. But escape could be just as lethal as an execution if she played it the wrong way. She pondered for a moment on her options, as the gates of the town grew nearer. Her hands were bound fast, preventing any handy spells from being used in the immediate future. Her bindings were rope, so the lock pick hidden in her hair was no good either. Maybe she could continue the senility act, and buy herself some time. Then again, maybe she couldn't. And then she heard the gates thunder shut behind her.
The smell of mead and dirt were heavy in the air as the cart shuddered to a stop. Other than a central fortification, the town was as Valencia had expected: Plenty of thatch-roof shacks, bumpkin Nords, and Imperial soldiers. She tensed as the back of the cart opened and the four were instructed to exit. She took in a deep breath and time delineated. In a mere millisecond she pondered her options with expert clarity, for this was her gift. Her ability to fight and use magic was not shabby in the least, but she couldn't compete with any true swordsman or wizard. No, what saved The Savvy Merchant were wits, stealth, and fast feet. So, it was time to use those wits. Since escape from the town was temporarily impossible, and fighting her way out even less so, acting would become her scapegoat.
The line of prisoners straggled forward, with some pathetic minor officer rattling off names as patriots waltzed to their death. As she approached the front of the line, one man tried running from the guards. She remembered him as a man who had scorned Stormcloak for a majority of the ride. His fate was rather ironic, she supposed. He was no bleeding heart, but one steel arrow later his heart was certainly bleeding. She should probably have felt less jovial about a man's cruel death, but she had seen and committed so many atrocities that a concession now would mean an unnecessary and fatalistic guilt trip. No, if anything she should be happy that the numbers of witnesses to her existence were dwindling. Hopefully, she could escape this massacre alone, and save herself the trouble of loose ends. But, ah! Here was this young Imperial brat, scanning a list for her name.
"Prisoner, who are you?" His tone was even more boring at close range. As if her appearance wasn't obvious enough. He spoke to a woman of the Empire with dark eyes, grey hair, and visible wrinkles amongst a swarm of young Nord revolutionaries. How foolish was this soldier, to miss her name? But she swallowed her contempt, flashing the tender smile of a Grandmother.
"I'm Helena Ventus, young man, of Chorrol in Cyrodil. The Duchess Cornelia and I-" The man's eyes lurched with a start.
"Ma'am, the Duchess has been dead for 60 years." He cast a sidelong glance at the captain of the guard, who was approaching.
"Why, dearie, what are you talking about? I had a lovely chat with her not two days ago." This time, her voice was layered with a calming, mesmerizing undertone. All Imperials had innate vocal magics in their system, but few could truly utilize the Voice of the Emperor to its full potential.
"Well, I-I- Captain! It's good to see you! Miss Ventus was just telling me about her knowing the-" The Captain, a stout Imperial woman of presumably wartime background, smacked him upside the head. As he nursed his handprint-marred face, his eyes began to flutter, and the beleaguering effects began to dissipate. The Captain addressed Valencia directly.
"No cheap conjuror's tricks in my camp. Try giving us your real name, and we might just delay your execution a day. Plus you've got quite the record, so there'll be no lies. I'd like you to admit yourself, and die with a bit of dignity, if you get my meaning. So, will you give me your name?" When she refused, the Captain simply laughed. "Off to the block, then. We'll make sure your corpse makes it back to the Sewers."
The priestess began reading off their rites, her voice a high warble over the rumblings of the damned. Suddenly, Valencia felt a sharp sense of déjà vu. Where had she seen all of this before? After some comment by a rebel, the priestess unceremoniously ended her sermon and stalked off towards a horse. The offending rebel in question was in short order brought to the block, and the executioner's axe stood at the ready. As he began some preaching of self-righteousness over the Imperials, the axe was brought down remorselessly, cutting his tirade off. Agrivicci chuckled at her own terrible pun, and the Captain -ever serious- beckoned the elderly woman forward. As she took a step, a low whistle howled over the mountains. The previously loud town seemed drenched in silence.
But the Captain pressed on. "I said," she reiterated "To the block. It was nothing but the wind." And Valencia felt a stiff prodding of a sword hilt against her back. She marched forward, feigning arthritic joints, and slowly lowered herself to the bloody block, smiling. She knew that sound, and it was certainly not wind. She had seen -in the Elder Scroll- this place before, and heard that sound. The situation had become an eerily familiar memory, almost a pale shadow when compared to the blinding nature of the Scroll. She had been slowly rubbing her wrists together since the sound began, fraying the ropes just enough to move her hands a fractional distance. In just a few moments, her freedom would be at hand. "By Meridia, if I make it out of here I'm starting a pilgrimage," she thought to herself.
The low whistle began again, and The Savvy Merchant's smile widened. She continued the subtle, twisting motions with her wrists, watching the pillar to her left. As the executioner raised his axe, the Shadow descended. A great, scaled beast crashed into the tower, shaking the crowd below. After a brief moment of confusion, it roared at the rabble, and all hell broke loose. Fireballs began belching forth from the sky, burning buildings and shattering stone. The executioner, thrown off balance, stumbled for a second and let go of his axe. Agrivicci flicked her wrist, and her Telekinesis spell kicked in. The axe whipped itself underneath the executioner, who proceeded to land his throat against his own razor-sharp blade. The smell of blood mixed sharply with the new scent of brimstone. In a flash, the Merchant was up, and after a bit of finagling with the bloodied axe her bindings were cut loose. As the dragon roared again it took off, dodging the arrows of two-dozen sentries.
But the Savvy -Valencia told herself- care not for mythical beings and magical creatures lest they are of benefit, and so she shook off her awe and scrambled to another tower where some Stormcloak rebel soldiers were now encamped. The Jarl, his gag removed, was talking to his people in a surprisingly calm voice. A dragon, she heard through the noise. A dragon? Well, she supposed it was that or insanity, and the latter was unlikely with this many people involved. Ignoring them, she rushed up a stone staircase adjacent the rebels. She rounded the first twenty steps in four bounds, but a rumbling shake gave her clairvoyance to duck against a wall before she rounded the next flight of steps. It wasn't a moment too soon. Mortar, stone, and dust erupted into an antechamber as the wall was knocked into shattered pieces. The smoking nostrils of a snout protruded inward, and gouts of fire engulfed the space. Even after throwing up a minor ward, the criminal could still feel the heat singing her skin. Too much longer and it would mean roasting, so she backed down a few steps. A minute or two later the dragon ceased, and she heard its roar fading into the distance. She rushed back up the stairs, and turned a corner to look out of her improvised balcony. The town before her was rife with smoke and ash, and what few buildings remained were on fire or collapsing. One such burnt-out husk lay before her, so with a silent prayer, she leapt towards its window.
