Author's Note: I suck at starting stories so please excuse this less than savoury beginning.
He awoke to the sound of horses' steeled hooves tapping against the rocks of a road, the great blue sky showing through canopies of frost-hewn pines above him, and around him battle-wounded men in furs draped with linens the colour a shade darker than the sky.
"You're finally awake," one of the men who sat to his left spoke, a warm welcome into the cold world he never remembered being in. Looking back, the last he saw of trees, they did not have freshly-fallen snow on needle-sharp leaves, nor were they pines that littered the grounds beneath their boughs with pine cones. The air was cold; it pierced through the burlap rags he wore, but had not recalled putting on. He yearned to rub his hands together for warmth, yet found them slung between his legs, bound tightly together with leather bands. What's happening? he found himself asking. His head was all aswirl. "You were caught trying to cross the border right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there," the gold-haired man looked over to the far right corner of the rocking carriage, where a man in the same burlap rags sat hunched over hands clasped in regret.
"Damn you Stormcloak rebels," the man in rags held his head up, looking at them with angry, bloodshot eyes that had been beaten recently. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they weren't looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell."
Horse thieves? Rebels? Imperial ambush? What have I gotten myself into?
"We're all brothers in binds now, horse thief." the blond man spat.
The teamster must have heard their talk, as he barked, "Shut up back there!" and all sounds would have died down indefinitely if the eyes of the man in rags had not caught the intimidating sight of the honey-haired bear of a man in thick black furs who sat facing him.
"What's wrong with him, huh?" he squawked, bending down to look up at the bearded man's face, which was bowed down in either shame or regret.
"Watch your tongue!" the gold-haired one snapped, crushing the offender's foot with the fire-hardened sole of his fur boot. The other man let out a pained shriek, but beneath it the accented voice of the blond man thundered, "You were speaking to Jarl Ulfric, the true High King!"
"The true High King!" his fellows in their blue uniforms agreed, to the irritation of the Imperial teamster, who growled another time to quiet them.
The ragged man, realising who he had just spoken to, whimpered in fear, "Jarl Ulfric? You're the leader of the rebellion! If they've taken you… gods, where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits…" said the blond man somberly, taking away from the group as the talk met its abrupt end once more, to peer onwards into the mist that shrouded the mountain path the Imperials were bringing them through. Their carriage was filled with a pensive silence for which the teamster was extremely grateful, but on the face of the man in rags was only dread. "What village are you from, horse thief?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"Why do you care?" the ragged man replied, the panic visible in his tone.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
His dull grey eyes widened in fear. His lips quivered as he said, reluctantly, "Rorikstead. I'm… I'm from R-Rorikstead."
Things went quiet again sooner than he would have liked. But the deafening silence was not seeking to discomfort him again when the mist parted, letting the sun bathe the valley in its glorious light. At the end of the road, at the foot of the mountain, was the welcoming sight of Imperial stone walls around Nordic thatched roofs emerging from the mist.
"This is Helgen." the blond man announced. "The gods wait for us here."
Author's Note: So what do you think? This is the very first time I've posted anything on here, and some feedback would be most appreciated.
