Chapter One
Of Gods and Dragons, Pt. 1
The forests of the Rift came alive with the sounds of pounding hooves, of a man who hummed a song of home in his heart. Home was not too far away, Vithar thought to himself as he cracked a lopsided grin, feeling the tight skin around his scarred face strain itself to try and stretch. The scar, he had gotten from a bear ambush a year ago, while on a quest to save the innkeeper's daughter. That same daughter who fell in love with him and left scars on his heart.
According to the worn map he still carried, he passed by Shor's Stone, opting to take the northern route to go around the cliffs, avoiding the Spriggans he saw near a grove of trees. His Cyrodilic horse wasn't bred for stamina like the horses of Skyrim, so he had to rest periodically. However, he still managed to get around the cliffs just before the sun began to set.
Brushing the strands of his blond hair from his face, he absentmindedly grazed his calloused fingers alongside the scars that trailed from his cheek down across his lips. The same lips she kissed. He shuddered, realizing that the same innkeeper he was apprenticed to was probably out seeking his blood right now. Not very many fathers like it when their daughter's boyfriend leaves in the dead of night…
His hand went down to his belt, where a black, curved dagger rested in its sheath. The dagger had been a family heirloom, his father claimed as he handed it to Vithar years before, when he was preparing to leave for the Great War. No blacksmith in Tamriel could recognize the blade, so Vithar had to sharpen it himself. Not that he minded, since he loved the trade.
The letter his brother wrote still rested in his pocket, the burden of family keeping him grounded on Nirn. Come Oblivion or high water, he would reach his father with aid. The red bottles of curing potions clinked in the saddlebags of his horse.
"I'll get home soon," Vithar muttered, lightly kicking the sides of his brown steed to push forward.
A small brown fox darted out from the undergrowth, startling the horse. Vithar held on tightly, "Hold, girl…steady now! Steady…" As he saw the fox, adrenaline coursed through his body. He reached behind him, the wood of a polished hunting bow meeting his grip. Pulling it free from its holdings, he retrieved a steel arrow from the quiver he kept on his lower back and nocked it to the string. The fox had barely gone a few steps before being impaled through the eye and to a tree trunk.
Vithar's expertise with the bow earned him the trust of his Legates. His preference for eagle feathered arrows earned him his title: Eagle-Feather. The rarest type of bird in Cyrodiil and Skyrim, eagle plumes were hard to come by, but Vithar's pockets ran pretty deep.
As he dismounted the horse and tied the reins to a nearby tree, his leather boots stamping onto the springy dirt, he stretched his hands upward, replacing the bow on his back as he walked to the fox's quivering body, still shaking in its death-throes. He pulled the arrow out with a sickening crack of the fox's skull, and wiped it clean on the nearest leaf before placing it in its quiver. He took out his knife, admiring the gleam of the dying light on the ebony blade before he began the arduous cleaning process.
After a few minutes, the blood of the fox running down the slight hill, Vithar held the intact pelt of his first kill since leaving Cyrodiil. His father would be so proud of his son for his hunting prowess. After cleaning the pelt of any tissues or blood, he placed it in his game bag, leaving the meat for a lone wolf, thin and sickly, who snarled at him nearby. Hunter he may be, he still had the heart of an animal lover.
Returning to his steed, he mounted it, only to stop as he picked up the sound of hooves slamming into the dirt. His left hand went to his bow, his right to the dagger in his belt. No one should be in this area…not at this time. The forest was dangerous in the evening hour. Who could this be?
"We'll drive out the Empire from this land that we own…" a song wafted through the air, sung by a chorus of men. "With our blood and our steel we will take back our home…"
Suddenly the entire forest came alive with the triumphant proclamation, "All hail to Ulfric! You are the High King! In your great honor we drink and we sing…"
Wait…Ulfric? As in…Stormcloak? Vithar thought as he removed his hands from his weapons and slid into his horse's saddle. Maybe these soldiers are friends.
The pounding of hooves came ever closer, slowing to a leisurely trot as a thick Nordic voice cut into the song, "Halt! Who goes there?!"
In the sunset, Vithar's sharp eyes met the dark eyes of a beastly-looking man, clad in chainmail wrapped by a blue sash, mounted on a brown, sturdy-looking horse, obviously bred in Skyrim.
"You know of Ulfric?" Vithar's deep voice asked, and the rest of the group emerged from the trees, all mounted on horses. Vithar counted six of them, all dressed like the Nord who approached him. Some had helmets, obscuring their faces, others did not. Heavy iron greatswords, battle-axes, and iron swords were all drawn, while one Nord woman in the back had an iron arrow pointed straight at his heart.
"I said, you know of Ulfric?" Vithar repeated with a loud emphasis. The group looked at each other, and burst into laughter.
"What are you, Nord, dense in the head?" a Nord man in the back, carrying the greatsword, sheathed it and guffawed. He wore no helmet, showing thick blond hair not unlike Vithar's that curled just above his shoulders. "Jarl Ulfric is our leader! Of course we know him!"
"I served alongside him," Vithar continued. "In the Great War. I have not seen him since the day we liberated the Imperial City!"
The blond Nord's laughter died out, and he narrowed his eyes at Vithar, "You look too young to have served then, brother."
"That's because he was barely a man then," a deep voice wafted through the air, and Vithar's mind instantly recognized the voice, "Ulfric, you shouting bastard, is that you?"
From the back of the convoy appeared a weathered man, with his dirty blond hair slicked back behind his head. Bear's fur draped across his noble clothing, and a smug look on his face indicated that he recalled Vithar.
"You look old," Vithar snorted.
"Is that how you address Jarl Ulfric?" the blond Nord with the greatsword exclaimed, but Ulfric silenced him, "Ralof, he is an old friend of mine. We were shield-brothers in the retaking of the Imperial City. His marksmanship saved my life more than once."
"And his Shouts saved mine," Vithar placed a fist over his heart and gave a slight bow. Ulfric repeated the gesture.
"So where are you headed?" Vithar asked as the convoy picked up their pace, falling in line next to Ulfric as they went, heading west.
"Darkwater Crossing," Ulfric answered, and as Vithar gave him a strange look, he continued, "I have a meeting with some of the miners there. A bit of a trade agreement, if you will. But what of you, Vithar? Last I saw you, you opted to live in Cyrodiil for a time."
"Aye," Vithar nodded. "My father has fallen ill with a terrible fever, so I'm headed to Helgen to meet him with a few potions. My brother requested my aid."
"We are going to continue northward, back to Windhelm," Ulfric spoke. "Our paths may split at the Crossing. But you are more than welcome to come to Windhelm. I will be sure to prepare a place for such an honored guest as yourself."
Vithar chuckled deep in his throat, "Ulfric, you wouldn't think I forgot about the mead you owe me still? After how many years? Of course I'll take your offer up. As soon as my father is well, I will make the trip."
Ralof rode up next to Ulfric on his left, pointing, "Jarl Ulfric, look ahead, we have reached Darkwater Crossing."
"Here's hoping the miners have prepared a place for us," Ulfric stopped his horse. "It's late, Vithar, so you're welcome to stay the night with my soldiers and I. In the morning, you can continue to Helgen."
"The forests are dangerous at night," Vithar nodded. As they approached the Crossing, something in the area around them made Vithar's blood run cold. He looked around, first at Ulfric, then at the surrounding area, "Ulfric…do you feel-"
Then, all of Oblivion broke loose.
"For the Empire!" "Sovngarde awaits!" "Freeze, traitors!" Imperial soldiers swarmed the convoy from the darkness, some on horses, while others brandished heavy steel weapons of varying types. Three mages, two archers, and a Legate completed the group of about thirty different soldiers.
"Jarl Ulfric, I highly recommend you surrender," the Legate, an Imperial, smirked. "Killing Torygg was your worst mistake."
"What have you done?" Vithar looked at Ulfric, incredulous. He looked at the Imperials in shock, and hopped off his steed, approaching the Legate, "Legate, I am one of the veterans. I was just-"
The sturdy hilt of a battle-axe met the back of his skull, and Vithar crumbled into the black.
Now we're getting somewhere. Sorry if any of the locations are iffy. Just pretend that's the way the game map looks. ;) Hold on, I'm putting the next chapter up in a few hours. But I'm sure you all know how it all goes...