A/N: I'm assuming that Oblivion uses space compression, and thus doesn't show the WHOLE province of Cyrodiil. So forgive me if my interpretations of real sizes are off.
Also, this fic will probably CONTAIN SLASH. So if you don't like slash, either don't read this or skip the...uh, 'scenes'.
Warnings: None.
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The sun rose cold and whitish over a land gripped by winter. Every surface was buried by shining new snow, fallen the night before on a chilly, still lingering breeze. Few animals crept or flew about, preferring to hide in their ponds, nests or caves and hibernate at the end of the year.
A large, shivering roan horse plodded down the frost-encrusted road, taking care not to slip on the ice. The breath of both it and its rider fogged, leaving behind puffs of mist in their wake.
"Not far now, girl," Joraf muttered, swaddled tight in his thick fur cloak. The cold bit through his clothes, setting a tremor in his aging bones and causing his teeth to chatter. They had been riding for days and days from Bruma, and had not expected a sudden snowfall this early in the season. A few hard nights had been spent next to a conjured fire, but hardship was no stranger. The both of them had fared worse before. Even so, Joraf knew he was on the bad side of middle-age. His long hair was already greying, his muscles softening, and stress left him shorter of breath than it had a few years ago. Even the small things could put strain on his body, now, and he wondered if he should have remained in town after all.
Joraf sighed, and clucked his tongue to encourage Marienne. He had named the horse after his late wife, a pretty Breton hailing all the way from far-flung Vvardenfell. Her hair had been a curling waterfall of shimmering bronze, and her eyes a pair of gleaming hazel jewels. Maybe his memories coloured her prettier than the truth, but he couldn't help but think of her as a woman of great allure.
Shaking his head clear of the clouds of reminiscence, Joraf focussed on the path before him. The cobblestone path was lined with tall trees, branches laden with snow and leaves covered in rime. The sky was dark and cloudy to the west and north, slowly giving way to pastel blue sky where the sun rose in a bed of pink and red and orange embers.
Somewhere ahead, he thought, laid his destination. It couldn't be far – he had set out every bitter morning and stopped only when the evening was dark. Doing so probably wasn't good for his health, but he found that he couldn't quite bring himself to care.
A clatter of hooves resounded around the coming bend, maybe fifty or so metres away. Joraf tensed, ready to reach for his weapon in case of a bandit ambush, but the young woman racing towards him on a black stallion did not look like an outlaw of any sort. She was skinny and small in the way of her people, and dressed in the rough but well-washed clothes of a courier of some kind.
"Why do you rush, Bosmer?" Joraf demanded, rising on his stirrups.
"Message for the Count of Skingrad," he called back, throwing him a cursory but friendly smile as she slowed to speak to him. "There's been killings, in case you hadn't heard, traveller. Awful, awful things! Good citizens found dead, floating in the quay water! And in such terrible states...but I shouldn't say any more, friend –"
She galloped by before he could answer, and was gone in a flash. Joraf stared at her back for several seconds, wondering about the coincidence with his work, and turned back around. As he went around the bend, he suddenly caught sight of the long, straight stone bridges stretching over Lake Rumare. The Lake had mostly frozen, imprisoning a number slaughterfish and one abandoned boat. The banks were cold and bare of grass, littered with frosty rocks and boulders and a far-off Ayleid ruin.
The soaring white walls of the Imperial city broke the horizon apart; and White-Gold Tower rose above it all, hard and unwavering in the sky above the countless shingled rooftops.
Joraf sighed, glad to have finally made it back to civilisation – and hopefully, the last job of his life.