Chapter 1: The Boat
Note: This is set after Skyrim, with Ulfric Stormcloak becoming High King instead of Elisif. Additionally, the character in this story named "Lara" is the Stormcloak-sided Dovahkiing from Skyrim.
The boat rocked from side to side. Waves crashed as the ship sailed south, past Cyrodiil. In the hold but a gentle murmur could be heard of conversations, song and fighting from above as a man, hands tied, awoke.
He looked around. There was little to be seen, just crates and boxes which would probably contain vegetables, or swords, or perhaps Dwemer artefacts. They could have contained anything, for this prisoner had no knowledge of where he was or why he was there.
Footsteps could be heard. Voices, hushed, talked. The prisoner stood up and walked to find the source of the sounds he could hear; maybe he could find the exit while he was at it too.
Before he could walk, however, three, possibly four people appeared from around a corner.
"Are you sure the High King ordered this? He is just a prisoner you know" said one. He wore armour, quilted with a blue cloth wrapping around it, torn at the end. He wore a helmet covering his entire face and had a bow in one hand, with a quiver holding his arrows perched on his back.
"I need any soldier I can get right now. There's three hundred of us and Talos knows how many of them there are." This was a female voice. Its source came from a female wearing armour not unlike that of the other man. She, however, did not wear a helmet, and in its place was long brown hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin. Instead of a bow and arrow, she had two long swords sheathed.
"You there," she said to the prisoner, "what is your name, kinsman?"
"Skelanth", the Nord replied, brushing his equally long brown hair away.
"And how did you come to be in jail?" the woman asked.
"I worshipped Talos-" he suddenly thought that these, despite their odd armour, might be Imperials. "Please, I beg you, don't kill me-"
"We're not Imperials, those milk drinkers were kicked out a month or so ago." She chuckled. She explained the recent Stormcloak resistance, then jokingly asked, "How long have you been in jail for?"
The woman kicked open a nearby crate, and threw armour, like her own, to him.
"Here," she said, throwing a pair of shortswords to him, "You'll need all this where we're going. Riffolk, show this soldier his quarters."