-So I've had the hankering to write this concept for a while now, but it's not 100% fleshed in my head yet. It's also my first time seriously attempting to write a fiction of any kind whatsoever, so I'm suffering from the "ohmygosh I'msuchaposer peoplearegonnahatethiscrap" syndrome. Reviews are greatly appreciated to help me grow in this process! Thank you all so very much for deciding to give this journey a chance! -NightingaleNyx-

**I do not own any part of the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim-this is a work of fiction purely for shits and giggles. However, Sillina Bjornsen and Demethys Romalen are my original characters, and they are, as such, my intellectual property.**

Prologue

There were few things as annoying as being a woman traveling alone.

She'd dealt with a lot of metaphorical pebbles in the shoes of life, but as she wordlessly slid thirty septims across the wooden table in Wildeye Stables (an exorbitant amount, for the record), Sillina Bjornsen could not think of anything more generally irking than having one more person ask-

"And where are you off to all by yourself, Miss?" The sandy-haired Imperial with a jaw like a moose looked at her quizzically, picking up the coin pouch as gingerly as someone who drove a carriage for a living could.

Slinging her weathered knapsack onto her back again, Sillina lifted her chin to fix the man with her best I-mean-business face. "Passage into Skyrim."

The carriage driver, already fingering through the coins she'd given him, looked back up from his calloused palms. "Skyrim, eh? Should have known. Nord, here in Bruma, looking for a ride?" The Imperial chuckled. "Of course it's Skyrim. Silly of me, innit. Though I suppose you could be comin' from--"

"Yes, Skyrim please." Silllina readjusted her white-blonde hair around her ears with a huff; Moose-Jaw's talkativeness was starting to get on her nerves. Back home in Cheydinhal, when she gave the louses at the bar "the murder look," as her friend Demethys jokingly dubbed it, they knew to shut up and turn their attention elsewhere. Out on the road? What even were boundaries. "Into Falkreath."

The driver dropped the septims from his palm back into the pouch one at a time, each making a distinct-almost mocking-plink as they returned. "Yes, indeed, well… you see, about that…" Moose-jaw scratched the back of his neck with his now-empty hand. "I can't be making trips into Skyrim just now, you see. I dunno if you heard, but there's a good bit of political mishaps happening over there, what with the civil war business… lots of territory scuffles and such-HEY!"

Before Moose-jaw could finish his sentence, the woman had swiped her coin pouch out of his hand and swept out of the stable, boots scraping a brisk staccato across the flagstones.

"Well… not the friendliest type, was she?" said Moose-jaw to no one in particular.

Sillina stepped out into the snowy wind blowing down from the Jerall Mountains, pulling her woolen cloak hood over her hair and ears. Her shoulders sagged as a heavy sigh escaped unbidden from her chest. All this way… she thought, all this way for nothing. So much emotion, not to mention gold, just to get stuck at the border.

She reached into the pockets of her rough linen tunic, having sold her best dresses for traveling money, and pulled out the letter from Runil. She smoothed out the parchment, by now wrinkled and soft from being handled repeatedly on the carriage rides across half of Cyrodiil, and read yet again the priest of Arkay's words.

Sillina,

As always, I hope my letter finds you well.

I write to you with difficult news. Your father, Torbik Bjornsen, has died. I will not pretend to understand the feelings that this stirs for you, but I am sorry that I have to be the one to notify you.

I do know, however, that the request I have for you may be even more difficult. If you could find it in yourself to return to Falkreath, there are several affairs that require your attention, as the sole remaining family member. Your father's burial, should you find the strength to do so, also needs attending to.

Again, I am deeply sorry to have to bear this information. Should you decide to make the journey, you may write to me and I will do my best to make preparations for you here.

Kust sends his regards and promises venison stew, should you choose to come.

Runil

Sillina stood in the frigid air, barely feeling the wind whip her cloak around her ankles. So few words… barely enough to fill a single page. That's all it takes to throw my entire life off-course. It had taken several days, even more stiff drinks, and several long talks with Demethys, but she had finally bolstered enough courage to make the trip.

"You should go," her Dunmer best friend and keeper of the Newlands Lodge had said, wiping down the bar in the darkened main room. A few sluggish patrons still swirled the dregs of their drinks, but the lodge was largely empty. "You've never really come clean about your life back in Skyrim, but I feel like this may help you get some closure."

"But Dem…" the drunk Sillina protested, her head lolling in her hands, "you need me here. I can't go gallicking-er, gallivalenting? Galli- frolicking all over Tamriel because my stupid dad died."

The wiping stopped. The beautiful Dunmer's red eyes flashed as she threw her rag onto the bar. "I need you here? That's your excuse? Cause that sounds like a load of horse shit to me." She straightened and crossed her arms over her linen blouse. "I ran this place before you, and I can run it again without you."

"Only because your-hic-aunt was helping!"

A snort came from down the bar. Dervera Romalen, Demethys' aunt and long-time former owner of the lodge, sat with her bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy. "And you don't think I'll do it again, you dolt?" She took a long swig from the bottle with practiced ease and slammed it down. "Besides, I run this place better than she does. When I was the proprietor, even the Red Queen drank here."

Demethys tucked a stray tress of rust-colored hair back into her bun. "Oh shut up, you old crone. You retired for a reason." Leaning on the bar, she set to opening her aunt another bottle of brandy. "Why can't you be like normal people and move off somewhere pleasant in your old age? Especially with the mess Cheydinhal is these days," she said, brandishing the corkscrew to emphasize her words.

"Ha!" Another snort. "You run this joint as long as I have, and you just see if you can stand retiring to some luxurious villa somewhere. I've been here for every scuffle, every battle, every upheaval that's torn through the streets of Cheydinhal for the past three centuries, and I'll be damned if I leave it now." Snatching the bottle from her niece's hands, the old Dunmer woman grabbed the cork in her teeth and ripped it out in one alarmingly smooth motion. Demethys just stared.

"Please teach me to do that."

Dervera spat the cork behind the counter. "Nothing to teach. Just grit."

Sillina groaned throatily. "Look, you two. We're coming up on the busy season! We need all hands on de-hic-eck."

The two Dunmer women exchanged exasperated looks. It struck Sillina at that moment how very alike they looked. Dervera's auburn hair was largely greyed, but still clinging to its old hue. Being as drunk as she was, if she just squinted her right eye a tiny bit…

"Lina," the woman on the left started (which one was it again?), "what busy season? We get our business from regulars, not hoity-toity Imperial travelers. Not that there's many of those in the first place anymore."

"Shhhhhhh…" The blonde reached out and clumsily pushed her index finger onto the woman's mouth. "I'm trying to concentrate."

Demethys pushed her finger off her lips. "You are so drunk."

"I know. Isn't it great?"

"You're impossible." She turned around to pick up her aunt's cork from the floor. "But in all seriousness… You should go. I think it will be good for you."

The sound of a head hitting a wood surface, unmistakable to the barmaid at this point, came from behind her. Turning around, she saw her friend passed out on the bar, blonde hair a mess around her, and Aunt Vera staring blankly at her unconscious form. Looking back at her niece, she chuckled. "So much for that half-Nord tolerance, hmm?"

Demethys shook her head. "Oh no. She downed 8 bottles of mead."

"By Vivec!"

Sillina shook her head to clear it of the foggy memory. Just thinking about the hangover made her head start to ache.

No carriages into Skyrim. What to do? I could just walk , I suppose. But that's a long, not-well-lit road. She fidgeted absentmindedly with the worn paper still clutched in her hand. There's sure to be bandits along the way… and I'm just one me. I'd never make it out of that in one piece.

There were few things as annoying as being a woman traveling alone.

She was about to admit defeat and start looking for somewhere to spend the night, perhaps to find passage home in the morning, when she noticed a group congregating a ways off, further out along the road out of Cyrodiil. Maybe twenty men and a few horses milled around a cart. Many of the men seemed to be wearing some sort of uniform, draped in blue, and carrying weapons- the only notable exception being a large man sitting astride a dappled grey horse, who appeared to be wearing some kind of black fur-trimmed coat. It was hard to tell from afar. The group appeared to be departing for the border as well, loading the last of some supplies into the cart.

She smirked in triumph. And there's my ticket out of here. Shoving the note back in her pocket and gathering her cloak around her, Sillina set off at a brisk walk toward the group. The cold air burned the inside of her nose and lungs, long accustomed to the mild climate of the Nibenay Basin, and it slowed her slightly. She barely managed to catch up with their tail before they got moving in earnest.

This is perfect, she thought. If I tag along behind these people, surely no one will bother me. It'll still be a long walk in these awful shoes though…

Bracing herself for the blisters sure to come, Sillina left Bruma with her unknown entourage.

"How long has she been following us?"

The captain walking next to the dappled grey looked up at his leader. "Since we left Bruma, my jarl."

Ulfric Stormcloak, taking care not to look behind him, considered this information. "Does she seem suspicious?"

The captain shrugged. "It's difficult to say, my jarl. While she doesn't seem to want to draw attention to herself, she doesn't seem particularly interested in our actions either. She's also not trying to hide her presence." The man seemed to ponder to himself for a moment. "It's possible that she's just a woman traveling alone."

Ulfric harrumphed, his massive shoulders shrugging. "What woman travels alone through Skyrim, Bjarald?"

Bjarald didn't have a response to that.

The jarl bristled inside. They were in a precarious situation as it was; these days he rarely left Windhelm, much less travelled out of Skyrim. However, recruits were down, thanks to a rise in deserters with the onset of winter and a reluctance he could only attribute to maternal fear. He could understand. Skyrim had already lost many sons, and mothers were loath to part with their children for another war. These days, speeches from his recruitment officers just weren't cutting it-the people wanted to hear the voice that conquered King Torygg,

As such, he had been on a brief and secretive recruitment trip. And while much of the population in the area were Nords, he was sure there were plenty of whistleblowers living in the northernmost city of Cyrodiil. And the last thing he wanted to do was take even more chances.

"Tell the men to watch her. Maybe have a couple engage in conversation, if you can convince them." He sneered. "If she's trying not to draw attention, let's see what happens when we give her some."

The captain gave a wry smile. "Oh, I'm sure I can convince some. She's not bad-looking, from what I can tell."

"Just get it done, Bjarald."

"Aye, my jarl."

Whispers rippled back through the group as the message was carried, eventually reaching the greenest of the soldiers at the back of the convoy. The sounds of good-natured jeering rose on the breeze as they debated amongst themselves who would talk to the stranger. Ulfric rolled his eyes at the boyishness of his men as soon as a girl entered the picture.

He prayed to Talos that this woman would not be his undoing.

The group must have thought her suspicious.

That could be the only possible reason that these three young pups had broken ranks and were bouncing around her right now, asking questions and looking at her starry-eyed like they'd never seen a woman before. Did she come far? Was she afraid of the woods? Where was she headed? Did she have a beau back home?

There were few things. As annoying. As being a woman. Traveling alone.

That being said, she did her best to turn on her charm. By now she'd had a chance to scope out the group, and clearly they were transporting someone or something important. And while she had suspected it before, after seeing them move, they were clearly military. By that logic, if they sent the pups to come check her out, they thought there was a possibility she was a threat. Best to come off as friendly and unassuming as possible.

The clay-haired boy with an impressively-sized nose on her left seemed the boldest of the group. "So you're on your way to Falkreath? By yourself? From Cheydinhal? What on earth brings a woman that far out here?" His easy gait bobbed slightly closer to her.

She smiled as his friend, a smaller boy with braided hair the color of straw, pushed him roughly away from her. "Don't you have any manners, you big lout? Don't crowd a lady!" He grinned apologetically. "Sorry, Miss…?"

"Sillina," she finished for him, her breath coming out in a puff as she fingered the hem of her hood and pulled it further over her hair. " I'm on my way to take care of some family affairs."

"Family affairs?" Big-Nose pushed his way back in, earning him a good-natured cuff from Braids. "Anyone we know?"

She shrugged. "Not unless you're familiar with the Bjornsens of Falkreath." The boys bantered amongst themselves, trying to decide if any of them knew the name "Bjornsen". The third youth, another clay-haired boy with an awkward gait who'd been mostly quiet up until then, piped in that he thought it sounded familiar.

"Nah, Fjonn," guffawed Braids, "you're thinking of Bjoran, the old coot that used to chase us with his shovel when we were kids." He grinned lazily at Sillina. "This here's my little brother. We enlisted together."

"More like Da made me enlist," Fjonn interjected. "I didn't wanna be here. I just wanted to take care of the farm."

Big-Nose rolled his eyes. "Ah, come on, little brother!" He clapped a fist to his chest in salute. "We're the true sons of Skyrim! Have a little pride!"

True sons of Skyrim? Sillina paled. The already cold air in her lungs seemed to freeze altogether. The carriage driver's words about the civil war in Skyrim chose that moment to ring alarm bells in her mind. She kicked herself mentally. By the Eight, was she traveling with…

At that moment, a paint horse and rider galloped past at full speed, forcing both groups to sidestep and spooking the convoy's horses. The dappled grey horse reared back onto its hind legs, and its rider turned, getting it back under control. He was closer now, and she could just barely make out broad shoulders, a short beard, and a mane of gold hair.

"Where's he off to in such a hurry?" Braids asked lightheartedly.

Big-Nose started to answer, but when Sillina turned to listen, an arrow buried itself in his throat.

Sillina screamed.

"For the Emperor!" came the cry from the brush at the edge of the road. Imperial soldiers poured onto the dirt from everywhere, and arrows fell like a deadly rainstorm. The convoy became chaos as men were put down before they could even reach for their shields. The small group scattered like mice in torchlight.

"Imperial ambush! Protect the jarl!"

So much movement.

The cold in her lungs forgotten, Sillina darted between horses, faster than any of the Nords around her. Armor clanked, men screamed, and horses reared left and right, the whites of their eyes rolling in terror. Picking up a shield from a fallen soldier, she threw it over her head with her left arm. But catching a glimpse of the body she had just pulled it from, she nearly vomited.

It was Fjonn. Blue eyes frozen open in a forever stare, with three arrows sticking out of him. Poor Fjonn, who just wanted to farm, had died in terror. No ceremony, no glory-just a scared boy far from his home. Though undoubtedly his father would brag of both his sons' "honorable deaths" to his neighbors.

Stupid Nords and their stupid honor.

Sillina tried to make for the forest, but swordsmen stepped out of the cover of the trees and forced her back into the circle closing around the group. The remaining blue-clad soldiers scrambled to find order, drawing axes and retreating toward the center of the circle. Some began to form a shield wall around their leader, who by now stood on his own feet, his horse lying dead on the ground several yards away. A few warriors still attempted to beat off the advancing Imperials with their axes, metal singing on metal as the maroon-clad soldiers parried their blades.

Sillina, armed only with a shield, seized it with both hands and began battering the soldiers advancing on her with it, bashing upward into the unprotected areas on their jawlines. She managed to knock one unconscious, then turned and bashed another's sword blade into his own larynx. As his body crumpled to the ground, Sillina made to bolt past him to escape the ambush, only to have an arm wrap around her neck from behind.

There was a bludgeoning pain to the back of her head, and the world went black.

-Again, my thanks for giving this a chance, and please review if you have anything constructive to say whatsoever! Here's hoping to an enjoyable adventure!)