Chapter 1
Ever since he was a boy, Istar had wanted to impress. His mother, Aeta, had taken care of him while his father, Lygrleid, had been working as a hired thug. Istar was 13 when his father died. Deep inside of a cave in a far away land, him and his gang tried to take out a caravan. The group, all of them Khajiit, were tougher than they looked. The group were mages and thieves themselves, and the only thing they could bring back his sword. With the loss of coin, the Blue-Teeth had to sell their family farm and move away from Cyrodiil. Istar pledged, on that day, to find his father's killers and avenge him.
4E 202 Hearthfire
Istar watched as his mother's sickness grew worse and worse. His sister had been asking him for months to see someone at the college of Winterhold or the mage's guild for help. "Finna, father wouldn't have done so. Why should we?" Istar said, playing with the hilt of his father's sword. The sword was his prized possession. The grip was leather, made from tanned Clanfear skin; the pommel on the sword was a flawless amethyst. "Istar, you're not stupid. Father was a bandit; he was a thief. Just do the right thing for mother and go get help!" Finna shut the door in front of him, the cold wind sent ripples down his body. When his father died, his family moved to Skyrim. Their Nordic lifestyle would help them flourish there. Istar knew that Finna, as fierce as she was, wouldn't let him back in until he would get help. Saddled and ready, Istar jumped onto his horse.
The first settlement he stumbled upon was Rorikstead; a relatively new settlement that had spouted up within the past year. The town was a little too quiet for his taste. Istar's nord blood boiled and pulsed throughout him: a cluster of inner rage, pain, and adrenaline. He drew his sword; it's blade gleaming in the setting sunlight. Two men, skinny and agile, ambushed Istar. The men wore steel imperial armor, but weren't soldiers at all.
Istar lifted his sword up, blocking a blow from the taller thug. Istar fell back, landing on one of his hands. He pushed himself back up while sprinting behind himself. The two men looked at each other, grinning, then began to stride toward Istar. Panicking, he grasped the blade with both of his hands. The shorter thug, only holding a knife, ran up Istar and knocked him over. The knife plunged into his gut, as the other thug kicked the sword out of his hand. Istar coughed up some blood as he watched the thugs smile. "You'll be alright, young lad. Just breathe and let the sleep take you" the shorter man said as Istar slipped into unconsciousness.