So, here I am again. Now writing for a totally different fandom. For me it doesn't matter, as long as what you write is swell and true to the matter.
This will be an attempt to take the blatantly repetative things we all have played and experienced, and make it interesting enough to read on.
My OC Dragonborn is especially chosen for this task and it will be interesting to develop her persona. Nothing is decided beforehand.

Regarding other characters, I WILL most certainly give more backbone and background to characters that usually are not an obvious chance of study.
The only exception to this "rule" will be Ulfric Stormcloak, Alduin and Ralof (though Ralof not so much in fact).

No one needs to worry that I'll drag readers over long combs of quests we already know in our sleep, since my main purpose is building a psychological story which develops characters and their relationships over time. The second most important thing is a realistic render of the lands of Skyrim; her reflection found not in long and boring descriptions of pines and mountain tops but through the eyes of characters and their behavioral patterns.

My first task is this chapter, and obviously the hardest - writing all about an escape we know too well and making it good enough. Who decides if i succeed? You decide! Reviews are therefore golden.

And of course, Skyrim doesn't belong to me but Bethesda.

As always, this is best read in 1/2.
Happy reading!

Every story begins the same
this will too
threads of innocent silver
yet every end that of
red and blood
green and peaceful
black and dead

Such is the shift
of the living
of the moving
the loving
hating

A thin, transparent fragrance among the stench of unwashed men, a thinness which broke through the conscious mind. Murmur; someone speaking to me or what, where...

"Hey, you."

That fragrance hovered at the nose, fresh as mountain water in a swamp, a very cold swamp. Water... throbbing confusion. Cold, white snow. Razors in the eyes as a sharp sunlight came into its being; do I know it's really sunlight? Blood in the mouth, a cavity tasting iron. Why can't I answer?

"You are finally awake!"

Latching onto the voice, the world was forming all around, senses perforating the dullness prick by prick. And then an unmerciful sharpness broke through and brought a shockwave. Presence. Tightly bound hands.

They were three bound men. One to the right, with his mouth covered by a white rag. He was not acknowledging the others, seemingly in a deep rest with open eyelids. Resembling opaque emeralds, his eyes were as easy to read as flat stones.
The two in front were dirty, starved. One had a familiar armor, the other one soiled rags flailing around aimlessly over his starved body, as if they were considering to fly away.

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there," the man in the familiar armor said. He was blonde, blue-eyed. His body suggested great strength, but his composure was torn and flimsy, making him no different from the skeletal thief.

An ambush.
A small wind blew by and there was that wonderful clean taste in the air. The taste of crystal, if it could be consumed. Ambush.
It was too cold for insects but then there was a blue butterfly flying by. It hovered over the thief's head. He didn't notice it was just that close to landing on his scalp.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he hissed. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."

They were all very different but they shared the cart. The same purpose was in the immediate future for them, and the feeling of something hung thick in the mind, along with a stale stench of greasy hair, skin and shit. There was another smell, unpleasant, but not apparent. Something awaits.

"If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell."

A thief for sure, trying to cross the border with a load of precious loots; maybe it was the horse he wanted. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time. What am I doing here?

"You there," he said, "You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." The Thief's voice had a hint of authority.
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." the blonde said calmly.

The pattern of stench was broken again by a small trail of purity. Concentration thinned out. Beckoning for sure; the clear surface rose and the sounds were left above that line. A shiver followed after every pure pulse, it was distant but so close. Air was being move, pushed out of its own boundaries somewhere not far from them.
"Shut up back there!" the horseman shouted, steering them to nowhere or didn't matter; the odd pressure heavier and at the same time more comforting.

"And what's wrong with him?"

The gagged man looked up to the thief addressing him. "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" the blonde said.
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?"

The Jarl's attention lingered to his left as he looked around, and was similarly met. It should have been obvious from the first glance he wasn't one of them, he couldn't be a simple thief; his tunic was something else. His face was well structured and strong; a somewhat aged complexion, but finely chiseled out. Yet there was something with which he matted his glance with, deliberately; even the eyes that stood out against the gray apparel had a thin veil of something.

"You're the... leader of the rebellion," the thief said and his eyes began to wander around.
Then they stopped, widening at a dark brown spot on the planks of the cartwheel. "But if they've captured you..." he whispered. "Oh gods... where are they taking us?" his voice a violently unwinding coil.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." the blonde said.
He had never been caught before, always skilled and careful. "No... this can't be happening. This isn't happening..."

"What village are you from, horse thief?"
"Why do you care?" the thief spat. He was not supposed to be here. He had nothing to do with this. The Stormcloak and his Jarl were the only ones at fault. It was not his failure. The gods must have forgotten him. Surely they would save him soon.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
"Rorikstead. I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."

The pulse returned, so powerfully tender, like drowning in a sea of the softest cotton. The three's faces became one, words a kaleidoscope somewhere far above a heavy sea of silk. There was harsh calling, there would be a headsman and a general, and someone was calling for gods, whimpering, "Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareh, Akatosh, Divines, please help me."

There was talk of some beverage, which was strange since headsmen had nothing to do with festivities.
"This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."
"Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?"
"You need to go inside little cub."
"Why? I want to watch the soldiers!"
"Inside the house. Now!"
"Get these prisoners out of the cart. Move it!"
"Why are we stopping?"
"Why do you think? End of the line."
"Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
"No, wait! We're not rebels!"

At one point the world peaked back; "Face your death with some courage thief," but then it sunk, and blurred, and sunk more and more and heavier, until all colors were one; a mighty forceful wave.

"You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time."
"Empire loves their damn lists"
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm!"
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."
"Ralof of Riverwood."
"Lokir of Rorikstead."

Someone was running in the distance, running and yelling and falling in a blur; not even close to become a dot at the distance but abruptly erased from the world.

And then, a short question which stopped the flow, "Who are you?"

Eyes converged their attention to one sole point. The pulse dissolved, stench returned. They must have thought that someone could save them; it would not end here even though nothing could be done or should have been done that day, since it was not the Stormcloaks nor their gray leader, no one could be better suited than the last of two outsiders. Of course someone could have been their salvation; now there was one left.

"Once more, who are you?"

Who am I supposed to be?
Following the outlines of the frame, cupping the hands, stroking through the long untidy hair, straws rigid like harts; she gripped for things like a newborn.
She sensed there was an age upon her. She was not a child, but too young to die.
A name was supposed to belong to her as well. It was crucial. Quickly now. She might die if there was no name.

"Human," the man with the list was searching the paper in his hand, "Female." Turning it over and over again, he saw that the number of prisoners were not adding up correctly. A heavy armored, middle-aged female lost her temper. "Slut," she sighed. "A petty whore to starved rebel scum. Wasn't she found stark naked? Pathetic."

It was a barely audible creaking when her cords began to vibrate. Her throat gurgled violently and stale old blood came out in clumps. She coughed, she tried composing herself, "I'm s-so s-s-s-so-orry," but they moved away not to get their uniforms soiled and wrinkled their faces in disgust, moving away until she finally got the brown blood out."Unt."
"Pardon?"
"I'm Unt," she said.
"You are a long way from the Imperial City," the man with the list said. "What are you doing in Skyrim?"

Unt couldn't answer. She didn't know. Maybe someone else did. Maybe she should be the one to question the man with the list about this. Her true name should be there, written in black ink, and then she could be free.

"Captain, what should we do?" the man with the list said to the middle-aged woman, "She's not on the list."

"Forget the list. She goes to the block."

"... make sure your remains..."
Revolting weakness washed over her and the world drowned in humming blurry. She tried fighting her way out, flailing her arms furiously, slowly; constrained by a the grip of a single strong hand she was led away. She didn't know why she was moving on her own, the grip on her wrists that of iron, but Unt followed the Captain until they stopped. At an arm's length to the left was the Jarl, but a gray shape. He floated around in the air, unsteady from one corner to the other of Unt's sockets.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero," he said. "But a hero doesn't use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp his throne. You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down... and restore the peace."

This time the dive was the deepest yet. A profound vibration shook the ground and her bones were humming in pain. Something was imploding upon her skeletal core. She thought it sounded as if the air itself had begun to spoke and cry furiously; Unt was pushed down, no one have noticed, help, help. At one particular time she saw herself decapitated, her head rolling in the mud. It must have been a dream, she thought, because when Unt came to her senses flames licked her skin and she heard her own distant cry of surprise as the blonde's face was in her own, terrorized, beckoning, his mouth parting rapidly, tongue licking black smear from his lips.
"Hey you! Come on, get up! The Gods won't give us another chance!"
Unt tried looking around, stressed by the feeling she had been away for a long time.
"This way," the blonde shouted, and Unt watched him dart away. Every time she had come back from the deep falls it felt like the world was there for the first time.
Unt followed him, running as fast as she could. She fell at the steps, almost to the door; several times she tried rising on her sore elbows, until the blonde's fleshy arm dragged her inside.

There was turmoil and panic even when barred doors. Two were hurt, moaning. Unt glimpsed the Jarl. His eyes had changed, he was shouting to the blonde while holding one of the hurt on the belly. Some kind of orders and pleas were being exchanged, and she felt herself dragged upwards, the arch of her hip bumping and splitting with pain at every step.
"Fuck," someone shouted, and then she was embraced right before a shocking, screaming heat violated skin.

"See the inn on the other side?" Unt was forced to rise with a hurtful yank. "Jump through the roof, and keep going!"

Unt landed; distant legs carried her up and forward. She leaped towards the hole in the floor, and slipped. She tried grabbing something to steady her unbending body with, feeling as flexible as a heavy log. There was nothing to grab. This is it, she thought. I die now, Unt thought as she hit the back of her head hard on the wooden floor, eyes bulging from the pain. And then she heard the furious shriek; through a hole in the roof, through dust and particles dancing in the column of light, there was a flash of a mad eye.

The dragon was circling in the sky, searing the living until their skin separated from the brows and cheeks like a waterfall of meat, and turning the most savaged bodies into charred flesh. A soldier stepped on and over a leg turned to coal, smashing it into dust, swirling in the air, suddenly exploding in a million tiny sparks. It was beautiful, Unt thought. The dragon was beautiful. She could remain here, waiting until the dragon's breath found her; everyone were going to burn dead anyway.

Yet Unt found herself creeping, deliberately letting go of her weight to fall through the second floor to the ground, immobilized by pain after pain after pain; "What are you doing, what," the blonde said as he scooped her up and carried her among the rubble. "Do you want to die, girl?"
Her eyes fell upon the sky again, where the spiky black shadow circled, screaming in anger. "I want to go home," Unt whispered as the colors blurred together. The sky was hugging her, finally. "Home, home, home, home."

To the light, in the dark. From searing heat to sweat. Up, and down, and the around until dark became the up and true. She awoke in the shadow of a corner, the blonde stroking her brow free of thick, black sweat.

"Hey, you!" he said, wiping the stickiness on his knees.

For a short while they would be safe, he told her. He said there was a key to be found and that she should wait here and don't move.

"Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he said, fiddling with the straps of a belt. He slid an axe down his side. "That thing was a dragon... no doubt. Just like the children's stories and the legends. The harbingers of the... End Times."

Unt watched him rise."I'm going to be right here, if someone bangs the door, call me but stay hidden," he instructed.
It took a while, but he returned successfully. "I found the key. Are you well enough?"
He begun dressing her without getting answered. First he struggled with keeping her arms up and then realized he could ask her to hold them straight. Unt held them straight as a scarecrow's stick arms, still silent. She felt cold mail sliding down on her, like an iron dress. It made her feel better. He put her in a large quilted tunic which looked like a sack on her, and strapped a leather belt around her waist. Then he carefully held his arms out towards her, with an axe in them. Unt had never held a weapon in her short, fifteen-minute life, but the blonde placed a wooden handle in her slack hand, closing her fingers around it. It wasn't a question.

"We need to get on," he said. "Likely we'll encounter Imperials... you know who they are and what they look like. Tell me how they look."
Unt nodded at first, several times, before she saw her error and started speaking very slowly. "Red shirts. Brown leather over the shirts."
The metal in her hand was gleaming. "Just swing and let it fall on its own for now," the blonde sighed. His voice was coiled with exhaustion and worry. Unt shifted the weight, reflecting a stray bundle of light on the blade which caught her in the eye. She was a burden to him, Unt realised. "Let's go," she said. "Let's go."

"Are you sure?" the blonde said surprised.

"Let's go, please. Please, I want to leave."

Before Unt was thrown a looted bow she had been stiff and frozen in terror at the sheer weight of swinging the weapon; small sounds of detached wonder for every blow that either nearly killed her as she fell, or the blows she accidentally planted in the backs of nameless men and women. She had no skill but was saved by the initial reaction of the persons seeing her wield a weapon, and her reaction to their caution. One time, the blonde had missed such a chance and Unt took a severe blow in her shoulder, stupidly watching the red thickness flooding out. In the storeroom, she gulped down an entire potion and lay down.

"I want to stay and die here," Unt said. In the future she would die anywyay; she knew.

"We go on," the blonde said.

When Unt got the bow, she moved along the walls thin and nervous like an unpredictable shadow of a flickering torch, hiding in every dark corner of each new room, dungeon and corridor they passed.
And from the corners, her shots rarely failed to kill, to both their surprise. Every time the blonde took on more than tree Unt made sure to keep his back alive and heaving, because planting an arrow deep in the flesh and soft lives of the others would keep her alive as well.

In a prison chamber, the air stale with the smell of human death, flesh and torture, she managed to pick a lock. "A spell book," the blonde said, urging her to get it while they could.
To read, they barged the doors heavily in case more enemies would come. The blonde didn't succeed, neither did Unt. "I don't understand," she said, falling in a heap on the floor, tracing rough stone and soft moss in the valleys of the cobble through sticky and thick sight. She had an arrow piercing her palm which he broke off. "Can I die here?" Unt asked.

"Take the book with you."

Their bodies were licking the wall, drenched in sweat. Every time the wooden stump of the arrow notched the rough stone, she made a small sound of composed, head-splitting pain. Unt threw a gaze back at the sleeping she-bear.

They had left the crumbling tower a long while ago, crimson red and covered in blood of their own and the never known. In the cave there was a stream and they sat down briefly to wash their faces.
"Hey you. Eat this carrot. Don't drink the water. It carries a smell of rotten flesh."
Unt studied the vegetable carefully. "Go on and take a bite," the blonde urged.
She looked him in the eye as she brought down her teeth, and inhaled sharply at the sensation of food; choking and coughing."Chew," he said.

She had been too loud, the echoes traveling vastly along the stony crevices. Unt sat with her mouth open; a grumbling roar echoed back.

"Bear, be quiet!" he whispered. Flat on the belly, he slid along the dirt and saw the bear returning to rest. "We will sneak by it. Together."

Hard and bright were the shapes of light and shadow, and the tunnel narrowed at last. The bear hadn't even flinched. Maybe it can't taste our sweat after all, Unt thought, almost hoping to live.
Abruptly, the blonde thrust himself off the wall and started limping ahead of her own dragging feet. "That looks like the way out... I knew we'd make it!"
They stumbled out, clinging heavily to the grounds, the walls, any kind of structure; grasping themselves and each other. Dying, she thought, tumbling again face down, dragged down at a furious sound. Dying because we took a wrong turn and drowned or were eaten by the spiders or the bear. The ground vibrated and her skeleton seemed to shift inside of her like before; death, Unt thought.

But the clouds sailed their light blue sea earnestly as she found the will to turn on her back once the air quieted, menace disappearing, smaller and smaller among sharp snowy mountains. They were outside and the flying death was gone; outlines of land stating the border where the dragon vanished and the day formed around her senses. A faint chirp of birds, the smell of grass and pines and water. "We're out," the blonde laughed weakly, coughing and coughing, "Out..."

Unt lay still for a long time, listening to the sound of their lives.

They must have gone through a very long underground structure, because there was no snow here. It was warmer, more alive. Unt buried her nails in the soft earth, brought the fingers to her nose and took many breaths, and many more, until she believed in life.

"Do you have a name?" she asked.
"Ralof," the blonde replied. "This isn't over. This place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We'd better clear out of here," he paused, hesitating. "My sister Gerdur runs the mill up in Riverwood. I'm sure she'd help... you out."

A stirring took her. "Are you going away?" she asked quietly.

"It's probably best if we split up," he said and turned away his head.

"No," Unt said, rising as if on an urgent command, legs shaking, head spinning. Steadying herself on the rock, she touched his shoulder with her pierced hand, offering it to him, flinching as jagged wood notched onto his mail. "I know nothing at all."

He stared. Then he carefully brushed off her hand and inspected it, smearing out pus and pressing around the arrow stump with his thumb, feeling up the hurt. Dropping her hand, his face was composed worry ant Unt saw it was not for her or himself; biting his lip more frantically for every passing silence, following the slight stir of the grass.
His mood was grave in the end. "I'll take us to Riverrun."

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