Thank you for taking the time to read the opening of what I hope to be a long series of stories focusing on my Dragonborn's adventures. The genesis of this series is two of my biggest frustrations with what is otherwise my favorite game: The facts that in Skyrim, your character cannot speak; and that the world seems to revolve exclusively around your character instead of your character being a part of the world.
As you read keep in mind that I look on what we players see of Skyrim in-game to be merely a model for a much larger and more populous world. Let's be realistic: the UESPwiki claims that Skyrim takes up a large portion of a continent the size of Africa. There is no way you are going to be able to jog across it in less than a week.
One last thing before I close: Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks, though I hope they will indulge me in my use of their world to tell my own story.
The tall doors before us shuddered from a blasting spell outside. Splinters and dust fell from the battered oak. My breath was a loud rasp filling the narrow world inside of my helmet. Our shields were close enough to touch tip to tip: an array of red diamonds on white presented to the eager attackers. Behind me a mercenary rested his shield on my back. Panic took me for a moment, a fear that the man was trying to push me out of the line. I leaned back hard on reflex, almost breaking the line. I looked left and right to Aerc and Jesten, my friends from childhood, now my Knight-Brothers for reassurance. I found none. My two most stalwart friends looked vacantly ahead, lost in their own thoughts and fears. Even the sky was closing down upon me, trapping me beneath thickening clouds glowing red and purple in the setting sun.
Behind we warriors were families and individuals, all criminals in the eyes of the Thalmor. They were heretics, Talos worshipers the Empire was coerced into hunting. They had sought out the Ninth Path and rested at Battlehorn Castle, the last way station before Hammerfell and safety.
The shattering of the door brought me back to the present. Standing alone before his Knight-Brothers our Grand Master, a towering Orc in the blessed armor of Pelinal Whitestrake stood fearlessly. In that moment, I worshiped him.
"Do not wait for the onset!" he called to us one last time, "However many have come to slay us, you will win through or win glory! Remember your oath! Keep the faithful safe!"
With a terrific crash the doors evaporated. Shields went up and faces went down, cowering from the violent spray of oaken splinters and iron studs. At last I beheld my enemy, their armor reflecting silver and gold in the sunset. They were legionnaires with Thalmor to goad them in their brassy armor and black robes. Our archers loosed a single volley. The leading soldiers fell in a ragged line. And then the Grand Master was upon them. It was like looking upon a god of war in his wrath. Sword and shield were both terrifying weapons in his grasp. Fans of blood and pieces of armor flew high while he roared. None withstood him.
For brief heartbeats he fought alone as we gazed in awe. With a shout we recovered and followed his example, fear forgotten as the battle-fury overcame us.
I hurled myself at my first target, a Nord a head taller than I in a Legionnaire's armor. His shield was decorated with Cheydinhall's vines. My slight frame bounced off his more than six feet of towering muscle. I set myself again and stabbed, the tip of my blade snaking its way into his throat. The Nord fell with a gurgle, the first civil blood I ever drew. May my father forgive me: he had retired as a tribune of the same legion.
The rest of the battle is lost to me. There are six more I can be sure of, including two of those apostate Justiciars who stain my Empire. But that was not enough to save the people I was supposed to be protecting. In my first field battle as a Knight of the Nine, I failed my mission and ran away.
Perhaps better informed of my destiny than I, Kynerath was compassionate to me as I scrambled my way north toward the ruin of Lipsand Tarn. The steady autumn rain hid me from sight and drowned out the noise of my passage north. Ragged and tired, I slept in the remnants of my armor at the foot of the elven ruin.
The next morning dawned cold in Colovia. I recalled my circumstances and fell into quaking sobs that might have gone on for hours. I had no food and little of value other than my sword. My armor was decorated with the badge of an enemy of the Thalmor. Returning to my home in Kvatch would make me a threat to my friends and family and I would be hunted everywhere in Cyrodiil. Shedding my armor, I kept my sword and resolved to continue northward. I would head to Skyrim. As the Thalmor had stepped up enforcement of their White-Gold Concordant blasphemy, we heard rumors that their presence was not so heavy in Skyrim and many still worshiped Talos as they pleased.
My flight to Bruma was dangerous and the visit into the town even more so. Thalmor teemed in the streets, using the city as a net to catch fugitives fleeing their wrath. Using an old Mythic Dawn passage known to my order, I was able to enter unchallenged. Once within the walls I traded the last of my wealth and sword for the supplies I would need for the next stage of my trek. I planned to use a hidden pass that our founder, the Champion of Cyrodill, had explored years ago.
A few days later, the hidden Akaviri fort near Pale Pass was behind me and I was struggling to find the road through the southern mountains of Skyrim. The Jerrals seemed to trap the snow and wind and cold. For an instant the wind and blowing snow abated. I became aware that I was not alone. I heard a shout, a clash of weapons in the trees, and footsteps running up to me. Hot pain seared through my head and I knew no more.