A weatherworn sign marks the crossroads upon the Old Road. Two arrows, bearded with lichen, point the ways to Bruma and Weyrest. Their surface feels slick beneath the traveller's calloused fingers as he traces grooves that are distinguishable by touch only, lying lost and forgotten under their guise of moss. The wood is soft and spongy with rot, and where the man's nail digs in it leaves a small mark of its own to be discovered by a future wanderer.
A white cloud forms with the man's exhale, quickly dissipating and becoming one with the dense mists that streak their way through the silent forest and up the mountain range, as if the rock itself was a giant hearth in the broiling cauldron of the valley, and the white vapours merely lazy tendrils of smoke.
Were another soul present, then the sound of his sigh would reveal to them longing and exasperation, and the merest hint of a story left untold. But the only witnesses to the miniscule gesture are tall firs and larches, naked here, where the land is still in the grip of the winter. They stand shrouded in fog, mute spectators of an outlaw's homecoming.
The man's hand falls away from the sign, then slowly, with the same deliberate care others reserve for places of worship, rises to push back his hood. Black hair falls to frame his face, lightly curling with the humidity. The Nord wipes his damp brow. Despite it being his daily companion, rain still feels like a novelty to him.
His gaze turns to the mountain range before him, his thoughts to the last great leg of the journey awaiting him. At the northernmost end of the Empire the Jerall Mountain Pass constitutes the only link between Cyrodiil and Skyrim within a hundred miles. The path is by far the best-travelled one, widened by hundreds of feet into a road, older than any Imperial highway. Once, Cloud Ruler Temple stood guard over the pass, but the invasion of Aldmeri forces after the war left the ancient Blade stronghold in ruins.
The man learned of the purge of Bruma by word of mouth only, snatching up the rumours of his hometown in alehouses and brothels with the same eager desperation a stray gobbles down any morsels thrown to him. He had been fortunate to escape the wrath of the Thalmor when he had been forced to flee, a boy of merely nine years.
Before he sets out again, the Nord beats his staff against his shoes in an attempt to get rid of the excess mud and foliage. More will accumulate, lending real weight to his every step, in addition to the symbolic one already present. Then he hoists his pack higher and strides forth with the measured, mile-devouring stride of a man well-adjusted to the nomadic life.