Cyrodiil, County Bruma
A cabin deep in the woods on Cyrodiil's Northern Border was in deep silence. The three occupants of the cabin all knew a momentous event was coming. Not one they wanted to approach, but no one could stop the passage of time. As much as many people could try, no one could stop the great Dragon God Of Time. Two younger men bustled about the cabin preparing as if for a long journey. The third and oldest lay on bed, periodically coughing and supervising the two younger men. The older of the men was pale and shaking, sweat ran down his face, his grey hair was wild and unkempt, yet his face held a stolid expression. The expression of a man who knew his death approached.
Sometime later there were two simple leather packs by the door. The younger of the two men was stirring a simmering pot. The other was seated next to the older man who had fallen asleep. Reaching down a rag was dipped into a bucket of cold water. The old man shivered at the rag's cold touch on his forehead, but did not wake. Rising from the stool, the young man leaned against the doorframe and looked out.
The trees rose from the ground to make a wall of green and brown. The tips swayed in winds far above that carried hawks far above. The shadows gathered beneath the trees in the dying light of the sun. It was black inside the woods. Pitch black, as if Nocturnal herself stalked their little valley tonight. A shift in the shadows caused the man in the doorway to reach for his dagger. He stopped when the ivory shine off a horn showed in the rising moon's light.
A deer stood at the edge of the clearing. It couldn't be older than a year or two. Most of the local wildlife avoided the cabin and its inhabitants. Except for the occasional goblin or troll nothing disturbed their humble abode. The boy sighed and watched as the creature browsed among the grass and trees before nibbling on a mushroom. He watched for a few moments longer, then grabbed an armload of wood before closing the door to the small shack.
The fragrant smell of venison, laden with spices, and stewed with vegetables drifted about the small house. A small wooden table sat in one corner of the house. It was burned and scarred in places but still held firm. Four chairs sat around it. Two were nothing more than glorified stools, but the others were of a higher quality. At the head of the table sat a chair carved with all manner of things ranging from beasts and fauna, to ancient battles, even some runes of magic. The chair itself was well worn and a number of the carvings were indistinguishable, but for all that it still held an air of respect and nobility.
The fourth and final chair was dusty. Dust had collected on the chair and the area on its side of the table. Dusty as it was, one could still see how regal it was. This one was carved more delicately. Trees seemed to make the legs grow themselves. Vines streaked here and there, giving a sense of wild beauty to the piece of furniture. Much like the woman who once sat there. Tonight only the two young men sat and stared at the small fire pit while they silently ate. They watched the flames flicker and dance. The shadows reflected the fires movement, creating untold thousands of stories spanning from this moment in time back to the Dawn Era.
Stillness settled on the house, leaving to boys raised to manhood to consider many things.