The robed man walked across the seemingly endless road of rock and ash; passing the occasional refugee. He was at the border, he could feel it. Soon his feet would leave a world blackened by fire and ash and meet the crunch of snow. The air was beginning to chill his darkened skin beneath his black and red robes. He had walked south-west from Blacklight for several hours and frost began to coat his ebony mask as he neared the Sea of Ghosts.
Stopping just short of where ash turned to snow, he knelt down in the middle of the cobbled road.
The man extended a black armoured hand and scooped up a handful of snow, rubbing it between his fingers. Satisfied, he emptied his hand and stood, reaching into a satchel that lay on his right side, pulling out a piece of folded parchment. Unravelling the parchment with a quick flick of his wrist, the man looked upon a map of the land of the Nords, glancing back and forth from the map to the sea of snow before him.
"How can you find anything in this snow-bowl of a country?"
He scrunched up the map and cast it aside with an element of arrogance and walked on. Soon enough, his deep red eyes caught view of a city composed of great black slabs of stone that appeared to be almost encased in ice and surrounded by a frozen river that fed into the sea. The air was truly freezing now and he laboured to keep his mask free of the frost. Within a few minutes, his world had changed from blackened rock and dust to snow, frosted peaks and pine trees. Looking from the city in the distance, he cast his eyes back to the road. Several men on horseback were approaching his direction.
Armed men.
He stopped and held his hands behind his back, like a soldier standing to attention, and merely observed the approaching figures. At first glance they were clearly not to organised; their armour was mismatched and no element of uniformity in the slightest.
"Elf!"
He ducked as an arrow flew past his face. Several more men had appeared from the pine trees to his left, brandishing an assortment of cheap and rugged blades and bows. The elf stood with hands behind his back once more as he merely watched the approaching riders and kept the other bandits in his peripheral view.
The elf slowly clenched his right fist as he closed his eyes, focusing on the heavy thud of the horses. Closer with each second, louder. He could hear the horses' breath now, the clatter of steel. His heart raced as he awaited their attack. In one, practised move, he opened his eyes, ducked forward and threw forward his right fist. Fire enveloped the first rider and his mount, resulting in a sickening scream from both man and beast as their flesh was seared from bone. The elf rolled left, spraying another gout of flame towards the group in the trees. With quick ease, he drew two concealed daggers from a bandolier that lay across his chest, pushing himself into a sideways flip as he launched the daggers at the next two horsemen, both hitting their mark with a satisfying thud.
The last rider approached with speed, hell bent on killing the masked man before him. Straightening his posture, the elf drew a black, slightly curved longsword accented in golden runes from a scabbard at his waist, the blade pulsated with gold as the air hit the ebony. As the rider raised his arm to swing, so did the elf. The black blade slid through the horse's skull as he sidestepped to avoid being trampled and the horse buckled over as it ran, toppling its rider.
The elf sheathed his blade and turned to the last, breathing man. He was stuck in the saddle. Striding over to the rider with an edge of cockiness as he quickly stepped over several bloodied and burned bodies, he wiped his mask again of frost. The rider looked up at him wide-eyed in fear. He attempted to break himself free of the saddle but it was no use. He was trapped.
"Bastard elf, only someone like you would fight like that." He spat, grimacing in pain.
The elf looked down at him for several seconds, and then removed the mask which hid his face. He was middle-aged (for an elf anyway) with deep wrinkles around his mouth. A smooth, black beard matched neck-length braided hair, giving the elf an element of wisdom and experience. His skin was the dark ashen tone of the Dunmer, sporting a scar that ran just under the left eye to the nose.
"Someone like me? I am afraid Nord that you have no idea who I am." He said with a deep, croaky voice.
The Nord spat at him, "You're a goddamn elf! I fought your kind in the great war!"
The Dunmer looked down at him, amused yet with pity, and then crouched down.
"Then you fought the races of Mer, save mine." He leaned forward and placed a hand on the Nord's head.
"As I said, you don't know me. But I will have you know this..."
He produced a black gem and held it in front of the bandit's face.
"Today, you trifled with the wrong man."
The Dunmer gripped the Nord's head as streams of purple light tugged from the man to the stone. As he screamed, the elf's grip tightened.
"I am Kelran Arathi, an Inquisitor of Resdayn and member of House Telvanni!" He roared as the Nord's life force dwindled. As he screamed, his blue eyes rolled up into his head and the veins across his body bulged. Gradually his cries drew to a whisper, and then to emptiness.
Kelran Arathi stood, removing his hand from the Nord's head and holding the stone up. The black gem was now emblazoned with purple glowing runes that slowly pulsated, like it was breathing.
He smirked.
"There are fates in this world far worse than death..."