Up, down, up , down, up, down…

And so the familiar rhythm went as Dorthe's foot glided over the grindstone's pedal.

A grating noise was produced as she set the steel blade of a sword into the wheel and sharpened it. A few sparks flew up and then dispersed into the air before disappearing altogether. The sword was an order for Faendal, the resident Bosmer of Riverwood. She had forged the weapon herself from scratch and was exceedingly proud of it. She especially loved crafting the hilt, carving out an intricate design in the metal that depicted vines and leaves, hoping he would like it just as much.

Her foot lifted from the pedal and the wheel gradually slowed as she examined her work to see if it was sharp enough to be considered completed.

"Dorthe!"

She glanced up and saw that look in her father's eye—he was displeased about something.

"Your mother told you to wash up near an hour ago for supper and you are still out here lollygaggin'," he threw his arms out and gestured toward the general area of the forge.

She looked around; it was darker than she had remembered but it didn't seem like a whole hour had passed. The long shadows that had been there before had all but been swallowed by the one shadow of the Bleak Falls Peak.

"Oh papa, I just wanted to finish Faendal's sword—and look!" she held it up with a broad smile, "it's done!"

She knew that her father couldn't keep angry at her for too long when her excuse for bad behavior involved smithing. Her mother, however, could be angry all day and then some when she caught Dorthe in the forge instead of doing whatever boring, domestic ,chore she was instructed to be practicing.

Alvor nodded knowingly and took it, balancing the blade in his hands before nodding with approval. He laid it on the workbench while he found some cloth to wrap it in, "We can deliver it to him tomorrow, but for now you need to wash up."

Her father left a bucket of water and a leaf of soap on the bench in front of the house, meant for her to use. He gave her a pat on the shoulder before going back inside.

Dorthe rubbed away some perspiration that had gathered on her brow, then looking at her forearm, saw there was dirt and smoke smudges from the forge fire. Her face must have been filthy. She began to take off the gloves and smithing apron that she was wearing while she was working—loving the smell of the oiled skin they were made from, ripe with a smoky perfume that one could only get at a blacksmith's forge.

She set them aside and scrambled around the corner to wash up. Lathering her hands with the soap, she applied some to her face and then cupped them full of water and splashed the suds away. Some of the townspeople were walking into the Sleeping Giant Inn across the way to eat or socialize. Her mother had probably prepared roast goat, because she had seen Sigrid buy some raw goat meat from Orgnar earlier in the day. Dorthe could go for some grilled leeks as well.

When she entered her home she saw her mother, Sigrid, was wearing a scowl and sitting at her place at the table and was already eating. Alvor was slicing into a baked potato. Dorthe looked down to her own setting which featured, as she had guessed—leg of roast goat. She was a bit disappointed at the absence of grilled leeks but knew she shouldn't complain. Baked potatoes were fine, just not her favorite.

"You were supposed to be washed up and ready for dinner an hour ago," Sigrid nagged. Her ire could be felt in the way she handled her food—a rough saw of a knife into the meat, and a jerk back to sever it from the bone.

"Yes, Papa informed me," Dorthe nodded as she took her seat at the table.

"Don't get smart!"

"I'm not! I'm really sorry but I just lost track of time was all," she replied with sincerity. She didn't intentionally try to annoy her mother but ever since she was a girl, her interests and her mother's interests for her couldn't have been farther apart.

"You are behind on mending your quilt. No smithing tomorrow."

"But Mama!"

Sigrid threw her a deeper scowl, daring her daughter to back-talk so that Dorthe's smithing time could be eliminated further. Dorthe took a bite of baked potato and clenched her jaw to keep from talking. They had gotten into arguments in recent years over Dorthe's interests in becoming a blacksmith—Sigrid was hoping her daughter would catch the eyes of a suitor and blamed the obvious lack of prospects on Dorthe's lack of traditional, female Nord appeal. Namely, that her daughter stunk of sweat, steel, and smoke most days and wasn't learning to bake bread, mend cloth, and milk goats.

There was a knock on the door.

"Oh now what?" Sigrid snapped.

"Who has the audacity to interrupt people at supper time?" Alvor wondered aloud.

Dorthe could think of a few. Namely Frodnar, who would knock on people's doors and then run away before they answered them for his own amusement. She couldn't help but to outwardly grin remembering that prank he played. Sven's mother swore the knocking was from ghosts.

However, she grew sad at the memory because she knew the knocking wasn't from him. Frodnar and his family had been run out of town as the war was dwindling. His family supported the Stormcloaks and they couldn't be welcomed anymore in Riverwood if the small village didn't want to be targeted by Thalmor for lingering Talos worship. She hadn't seen Frodnar for a long time now and missed participating in his pranks. She missed the laughs they shared, the games they played, and most of all she missed the only best friend she ever had.

The knock came again, only louder.

Sigrid nodded for Dorthe to answer since she was closest.

She did as she was expected—expecting nothing in return but for maybe Embry asking for a spare bottle of Ale as he did sometimes.

As the door opened, she stifled a cry of surprise.

Three Thalmor Justiciars were on her doorstep. They stared at her with not so much as a smile in greeting.

"Can I help you?" she asked. The nervous note in her voice was all but obvious. She had heard stories of the Thalmor, of how they tortured dissenters and those who praised Talos. She often wondered if Frodnar and his family had succumbed to such evil but hoped to the Gods it hadn't come to pass. Her family supported the Empire, and had given up worship of the hero god—the Thalmor were now in league with the Empire, so they were all on the same side—right? If so, then why did she feel so unnerved at the sight of these tall, golden-skinned strangers?

The front-most Justiciar, who wore robes, pulled his lips back into a serpentine smile, "We are looking to speak to Dorthe of Riverwood, they said she lived here."

"I am Dorthe," she seemed to hol din her breath as she said her own name.

Her father appeared behind her, "What do you want with my daughter?"

"I need to ask her a few questions."

Alvor held a level stare—then after a moment said, "Of course, would you and your...associates...like something to eat?"

Dorthe noticed her mother's gaze start to panic, she didn't have enough leg of goat prepared for more than the three of them.

The Justiciar's smiled remained but his eyes squinted slightly, visually informing them that he'd rather not. He didn't look like someone who would come to Riverwood by their own choosing and it bothered her that they had questions for her because she couldn't possibly think of a reason as to why.

As far as she knew, most Thalmor agents had departed Skyrim after the Stormcloaks lost all territory but the East—and only a few remained to eradicate Talos worship once and for all.

"No, thank you. Outside is suitable enough—it should only take a few moments," the tone he used also indicated he wanted to question her without the presence of her family.

Dorthe didn't want to be alone with them but Alvor shrugged helplessly as they led her to the porch area. She sat down on one of the benches along the side of the house. The Justiciars in armor stood on either side of her and it didn't help her growing worry about their intentions.

She did have to admire the armor though, it was Elvin of course, and the green-golden sheen was apparent as the sky darkened. There was a natural luminescence about the armor reminding her of the moons, Masser and Secunda. She figured the reason for the enchanting look was because it was forged with moonstone. She couldn't make Elvin weapons or armor yet, but had hoped to when she was older and more skilled. She dreamed of traveling and apprenticing with other Blacksmith's, ones in the cities that saw far more volume of orders and had years of experience in a variety of materials.

The Justiciar had noticed Dorthe's attention on the armor and cleared his throat, "Very well—first we must ask you if you believe that Talos is a divine. Do you believe that Tiber Septim ascended to godhood?"

She shook her head, "No Sir, he was just a mortal emperor in the third era."

The High Elf nodded, satisfied at her answer.

"Do you associate with or personally know any that worship Talos or are in league with the Stormcloaks?"

She shook her head, "No."

Something changed her interrogator's expression. It was a negative, judgmental look. She looked away because his gaze made her uncomfortable.

A rising glow appeared out of the corner of her eye, and before she could make any protest, the Thalmor agent released a ball of energy that shot into her chest, and coursed through her—seeming to suspend all activity in her muscles. She slumped over, terrified. She couldn't scream, she couldn't move her eyes to see what was happening, she couldn't move any part of her own body. She was paralyzed.

She felt her hands lifted, as if she were a doll with no control over her own limbs—they were being shackled in front of her. She was then lifted—carried in one of the armored Thalmor's arms since she couldn't walk on her own.

Her lips couldn't even move to demand to know why she was being taken away, where she was being taken to, or ask what had she done that was so wrong to be treated this way? Her parents would no doubt be looking for her in a few moments but even then it would be too late. She was being kidnapped. She saw the Inn pass by, noted it was on her right, as she was whisked out of Riverwood. They were going North.

After a few moments of no feeling, a nerve tingled in her arm, and she tried wiggling her fingers. Her thumb was the only one that would move. She tried to speak but only a garbled sound escaped since her mouth was still paralyzed.

The sound, nonetheless, did catch the attention of the one who held her, "Are you able to move?"

Dorthe willed any body part that could move, to obey and hurt him. Her leg swung up and didn't do any harm but she relished the startled look that it caused him.

He dropped her at once. She rolled, finding her legs could now move and bend, but her top half seemed to still be immobile.

Suddenly there was that same glow, right next to her temple and she heard the Thalmor wizard hiss, "If you scream, if you try to run away—I will hit you with more paralysis magic. Do you understand?"

She nodded weakly. Her throat was feeling normal again, though a large lump seemed to form in its hollow. Her face twitched; she could move her eyes to look over and see him but ended up squinting at the light of the arcane ball in his hand.

"Why are you doing this?" it came out in barely a whisper.

He pulled out an unsealed letter from his robes with his free hand and waved it in front of her face, "Because you lied."

She shook her head, to indicate she had no idea what he was talking about.

"We intercepted this letter from a courier near Whiterun—he said that it was from a Stormcloak camp. It's addressed to you."

Then she understood why he thought she had lied.

She didn't know any Stormcloaks though! Why would one be trying to write to her? She opened her mouth to protest but the threat of paralysis only grew as the green light of energy intensified. She bit back a yelp and closed her eyes. She wasn't going to cry in front of these monsters.

"Get up," the same Thalmor commanded sternly and used his soft-soled boot to nudge her side, "You should be able to now."

Her legs felt less stiff and she used her back to lift herself, it was quite difficult with her wrists shackled and she struggled to stand fully. No one tried to even help her.

Once she was standing, the light in the palm of his hand evaporated, "Follow me."

She trudged forward with uncertainty. One of the armored Justiciars walked behind her and the other two in front with the wizard leading. She was certain though, that if she didn't do as they commanded, they would kill her. The Thalmor were known to be ruthless against those who they thought opposed them.

It was dark out now, the last strip of sunlight had faded behind the mountains and the moons were taking the sky, glowing even—which cast a fair, dull, light on the land. Did they intent to walk all night? To where?

A wolf howled.

Dorthe stopped walking, knowing there was never just one wolf in the woods around Riverwood. They traveled in packs and they were attracted to noises, including footsteps.

"Keep going," the wizard turned and commanded, igniting his hand in flame. She couldn't tell if it was to threaten her into obeying or in preparation for any wolves they might come across.

She reluctantly stepped forward a few steps and kept a look out for any movement from the woods around her. A rustle of brush leaves came from her right and she froze. A few night birds took off out of the pine above them and some loose needles blew past. The Justiciars had magic and armor, she had nothing—not even her hands to protect herself if she were attacked.

A howl sounded again—closer this time.

They noticed she had stopped walking again.

"I told you to—" the wizard was cut off as a large body piled into his, snarling and biting. He was knocked backward with enough force that his hood fell off. Two more howls sounded in the immediate area. The armored Justiciars pulled out their weapons and advanced on the creature while being on guard for a second attack from the rest of the pack.

Dorthe's mind raced as she witnessed the struggle between beast and Mer, and before she thought of all the drawbacks to her decision, she bolted to the right as fast as her legs would carry her.

A second wolf jumped from the brush and took a bite at her leg. She let out a scream and twisted away in a successful dodge, nearly falling since she couldn't balance herself. Instead, she stumbled but kept up her sprint as the wolf chased after her, down the winding path toward Whiterun.

She was near the river, she could hear some of the rapids—it was the same river that ran right by Riverwood, behind her home. Unfortunately it flowed north, and couldn't take her back if she tried to ride the currents. However, it did move faster than she could run from The Thalmor or any wolves. The wolf behind her leaped forward and caught a bit of her skirt on it's fangs; the muzzle clamped down, the material ripped, and she was pulled backward, hitting the ground.

The wolf went for her throat but suddenly froze with it's jaw hanging open, it's sharp teeth dangerously close. The whole body of it was illuminated in a tint of dark green before it dropped over like a fallen statue.

She realized at once, it had been hit with paralysis magic. The Thalmor were coming.

Panicking, she rolled herself athwart the forest floor, trying to keep from gasping at the sharp jabs of rocks and twigs under back and chest. The roll was painful and dizzying but she finally could roll no more as she hit the river's edge. The water was chilly, but she didn't let it dissuade her from using her legs to push herself further into the current. It finally grabbed her, pulled her under, and she kicked to the surface to grab a breath of air. Water rushed past her ears and she could barely hear the Thalmor Justiciars shouting at her from the bank while the river swept her downstream.